Ceasefire
by DingDongFootball
Summary: Sniper always hated these quiet times, for he found they only augmented the realities and harshness of war. Thankfully for him Scout is always there to break the silence. Slash. Language.
1. Ceasefire

Pairing: Sniper/Scout  
>Team Fortress 2<p>

Was it even possible to divide one's attention so? Or rather, was it wise to assign one ear and eye a direction, a corner, to commit the sensory flesh to sounds and sights of one specific instance whilst ignoring all others? Perhaps, even in this time of stand still, a full and wholly functioning guard would be the wisest to possess. Yet was he not doing his best to ensure his safety? The man had the scope a sniper rifle fixed to his eye for God's sake.

Not that he intended to pull the trigger his gloved finger wraps around. Not that his bated, tense breath that hisses beneath his clenched white teeth is restrained any kind of way; certainly not so that he may hear the patter of his enemy racing from the doomed line of sight that was the wasteland of guaranteed death below the Sniper's nest. The silence was necessary as long as he wanted to prevent any lethal prods to the back...

No, it is not the concentration of fatal marksmanship that holds Sniper captive in this evening that marks day number two of ceasefire. He is simply keeping watch; careful to keep the dot out sight so as to prevent suspicion or stir up worry or bloodthirsty rumours. He simply watches the barricaded entrances to the base lying opposite their own, the metallic planks of the building's foundation gleaming orangish in this oddly still night.

How was it that the woman's voice alone seemed to command the tides of combat, that the field below that is still stained with the blood of war is perfectly quiet only because a woman over an intercom said so? Sniper liked a good mystery, a challenging riddle, but it was an eerie feeling, knowing that, when it came right down to it, the enigma boiled down to a small, wispy thread that in turn bound itself with his own fate...

He emits a guttural grunt mixed of disapproval and dismissal of his own thoughts, shifting his back so his spine cracks his discs into place, readjusting the rifle and settling back into a concentrated stupor. Just what was he looking out for? What was he hoping to gain by wasting one of the few evenings he had to call his own? Ceasefires, as he'd learned from ten hard years of fighting this overdrawn, tiresome war, could end any time without warning. Sometimes a whole six months went by without the drones of sirens, while others Sergei could barely consume his lunch before another unexpected mission was set to begin in sixty seconds...

Dell always had a small sentry kept on snooze, placed discreetly near their barracks during the times of peace; he too must've found it all so dreamy, this idealistic concept of sudden and indefinite bliss. It helped ease Sniper's sense of paranoia, knowing that one of his less maniacal comrades also operated with a thin sheet of vigilance rooted in the back of his mind...

In Sniper's younger days, during which he was still one out of six RED Snipers around the world, the first instance of ceasefire had elevated his spirits, heightened by the knowledge that rest was underwayand yet, as his service grew more in years, he'd grown to realize they meant nothingit would only be a matter of time until death crawled back up behind them again.

Too many times had he been caught off guard, but no longer would he have his hopes for the war's end be slashed away by the ever familiar sounds of screams, explosions, and the raspy, feminine countdown of destruction. He'd fallen for it much too easily before, and Sniper was no fool.

But this, this is Sniper simply invading the privacy of the opposition, an intrusion of BLU's personal being. He was very much relieved they showed no signs of hostility from across the fields!

He lowers the rifle, bringing his calloused fingers to his temple, removing his orangish sunglasses and meditating in silence - save the soft breathing he exhales deeply from within him, the rushing pace of his heart slowing to a wistful thump, light against his breast...

Perhaps, this really would be the time of permanent surrender. Perhaps he could simply lay it all to rest and enjoy his time back in the base with the othersthough all the while remaining true to his nature and retreating to bed before he got too involved in their social activities, or too loose lipped from tangy liquor Tavish had packed away in his bag of Scottish delights.

By hocking himself away in his nest and dwelling on the end, he only took away these docile moments from himself. But before heading down and back to the base, Sniper wants to give it a few moments to let it get dark so that he may crawl down unnoticed. He rests his wrists upon his knees, his back hunched in a state of relaxed repose. Even dull, thoughtless moments rang with meaning without the screech and hum of carnage underneath them.

"Blimey, 's been a good while since I enjoyed one o' these," Sniper sighs, lifting a dusty carton of cigarettes from underneath a pile of old jars and coffee filters (when you're expected to snipe all night like war time often called for, caffeine and nicotineas was a handy place to relieve oneselfwas painfully necessary).

"Heh, never did give these back to Luc," Sniper grumbles, remembering the scene in which he approached the smarmy Frenchman for the pack as if it was simply a part of dreary life.

"Git wouldn't let me hear the end of it when I told 'im I'd lost the damn things..." he snarls before tossing the carton back onto the table. The Spy'd long since provided new ones for himself as it was. It takes Sniper only a second to find the translucent blue lighter amongst the litter of abandoned cartridges and smoked, sauteed filters. He flicks the flame, and he can hear the burning of the cigarette as he takes a sharp inhale of relaxing smoke, the smoggy air of the humid nest almost igniting under its influence.

"Hey there, slugger, smokin's bad for ya health, ya know," a sharp, disapproving voice calls from somewhere on Sniper's right, the man instantly producing a kukri from his hip and pointing it menacingly at the young, lean figure who holds his hands up innocently.

"Whoa, calm down there, Snipes, 's just me!" he chuckles nervously, the one referred to as Snipes however not relaxing his stance.

"I ain't a Spy!you could throw your jarate on me for kicksit wouldn't do nothin'!"

Sniper grimaces at the edge of the Bostonian accent Scout haughtily snaps in, grunting in reluctant approval before letting a strained silence wash between them. It doesn't take the irritable edge the young man's sudden visit has provided from Sniper's already dreadfully sour mood, however. There were many moments in which Sniper would have rathered an attempt on his life by BLU's Spy than airheaded chatter by BLU's Scout.

"Since when d'you give a shit 'bout my health?" Sniper grunts, his curled lips upturned in a scowl Scout can only assume is a product of some unspoken disgust the man internalises over his interrupted "quiet time".

"You ain't even gonna offer me a seat, though?" Scout pretends to scold the grumbling figure, and he laughs in an attempt to bring a smile to Sniper's facehis grin slides off quickly as he sees the unamused expression he causes instead, the older man clearing a spot on a crate in the corner nonetheless.

And so it goes for a few of the most painful seconds in Scout's life. The weary Australian simply takes drag after drag before blowing the smoke dully through his nose, Scout opening and closing his mouth as he sits, speechless, the stony gaze of his friend however scaring him out of saying whatever it was his mind managed to formulate.

"If you've got sumthin' to say, gremlin, spit it out 'nd quit gapin' at me like a bloody goldfish!" Sniper snaps before crushing the cigarette against the ground, flicking the butt. "'Nd it better not be any more of your anti-smoking drivel"

"I wasn't gonna say nothin' about it!"

"Righto, otherwise I would've flung y'back down the ladder, mate..." Sniper grins in a mock cheery tone, Scout scowling before folding his long arms across his lean chest.

"Heyyo, Snipes, ain't no need for the sass for real!" Scout snaps, waving the wafting smoke toward the cracks in the wooden planks, trying to air the nest out. "Can we open the hatch or somethin'?"

"No, you idiot, or else they'll hear us down there!"

"Jeeze, you just gonna let your own guest choke ta death, though?"

"Look Scout, I dunno where your sudden fascination with social etiquette came from, but I ain't too keen on this posh little 'tude'specially 'cause I didn't ask for your company in the first place," Sniper gestures toward the hatch on the floor, Scout not budging regardless. "Feel free to bugger on off any time, though, daisy," Sniper grins, Scout narrowing his eyes.

The two fall prey to the same silence that tends to overcome them the longer their visits become, Scout lighting a small candle and covering the trusty crack Sniper used to snipe through so as to prevent any light from giving away their position. The sight of the BLU Scout resting casually in the nest of the RED Sniper would undoubtedly bring about attention and curiosity from their otherwise inattentive comrades...

"You know, anyone with a functionin' brain would've taken the hint that I don't want to be bothered by now 'nd gone on about their damn business,"

"Too bad so sad, dingo, ain't gonna happenI ain't goin' nowhere, so you sit back and enjoy it!" Scout grins, his heart lightening as, despite the irritated groan Sniper emits, he sees the corners of the older man's lips twitch upward in a smile of resignation as well.

"'Specially ain't gettin' rid of me so easy after all I had to go through to get up hereyou ain't got no idea how many 'xcuses I gotta give those losers in order to come outside so I can see ya," Scout scratches behind his neck as he attempts to keep his voice rooted in evenness, though Sniper can hear the beg for validation on the edge of it.

"Cute," Sniper chuckles, Scout folding his arms and nodding seriously.

"Hell yeah, it is! Now I ain't got much time up here, they're gonna know somethin's up if I stay out too longyour REDS know you outside too?" Scout asks curiously, furrowing his brow as Sniper laughs a deep chuckle, shaking his head.

"I'm a grown man, Scoots, I don't need a curfew," he grins, Scout punching him playfully on the arm and pouting. "Besides, never was the life of the party, figure they don't mind much when I step outside for a breather,"

"Hey, before you go thinkin' shit, it ain't because I need watchin', alright? They're just afraid you creepy REDs'll try somethin' funny or some shit!" Scout explains, and Sniper shakes his head, wondering just where it was he turned on the path of life that led the smart assed boy of the opposite team some twelve years younger than himself to be his most cherished friend in all the worldnot that he'd ever tell Scout he was...

"And it seems like they ain't too far off! What the Hell're you even doin' up here, though? You got your weapons 'nd shit, you tryin' to kill us or somethin'?"

And Sniper rolls his eyes before waving a hand as if to dismiss the subject altogether, seeing as he was in no mood to discuss his own subconscious fear of falling too deep into the feeling of freedom, of peace, only for it all to be wrenched away under the Announcer's call. He would simply wait it out here, wait for the inevitable day in which they were all summoned back under the command to kill. And like Hell he'd ever tell the boy he dreads the day he would ever have to fire a shot into his head.

It seemed too delicate enough of a topic as it was, that the two, who've already killed countless members of the other's respective teams over and over again, would someday, someday reach the point where it would come down to the fatal stroke or shot or bludgeon between them; Sniper would rather die before harm Scouthe loved him too much to even let the images root themselves in the eyes of his conscious...

"I've a noisy crew, sometimes it's nice t'just get out 'nd thinkthat's where havin' your own nest comes in handyI figured it would draw less attention than if I were to waltz about down on the fields there'course I totally forgot I had my own personal noisemaker on BLU, too," Sniper grins before taking the scalding pot of water he'd been preparing in the coffee pot and pouring the steaming contents into two mugs.

Scout smirks quietly, watching his friend dab two teabags serenely into the liquid, taking the moment of his distraction as an opportunity to admire the man he'd looked up to since almost the beginning. He can remember their first meeting; late at night, though still light due to the intense summer that raged three years ago when he first joined, the young man had been rummaging outside the base, hoping to climb the apple tree near the side and pluck a few pieces off its branches...

It was lucky for Scout the Sniper came out, shotgun in hand, for when the boy fell from surprise from the tree, any other person would've shot on sightBut Sniper knew Scout meant no harm with his hands carrying nearly a bushel of the stolen fruit, and simply laughed as he found him a bag from inside the base, handing it kindly to the swift, blue tinted thief.

He'd told him to scram before any of the others found out, but never expected it to happen every night. But it did, and Sniper would stand out there with a bag, a disapproving smirk aimed in the approaching boy's direction. Eventually he began escorting him back to his base for good measure, trapped in dialogue with Scout, who could never resist an opportunity to talk, even if it was with his enemy.

Just by looking at him, Sniper knew this was BLU's Scout he was slowly starting to befriend, but Scout didn't figure out the role of his RED helper until almost getting his head shot off by the gruff Australian, cowering in fear as a warning shot whizzing past his ear was enough to give Scout the idea not to come any closer to the intel.

But still, neither Sniper nor Scout ever imagined that giving the Bostonian an infernal bag would lead to him finding a friend in whom he often referred to as a spastic bastard, nor to actually protecting him on the battlefield, or falling in love with him

It always turned Scout's cheeks so hot, the reminder that Sniper considered it more of a priority to watch out for the young man's safety than his own...

It was a mark of their friendship, the bond between them, when Sniper had seen the injured, almost dying Scout immobilised in the sewers of the BLU base. Heinrich, though a trusty BLU doctor, had the lives of many others at stake for one, and escaping Heinrich's radar was a risk Scout had to take when messing with underground, alternate routes. Without hesitation or a twinge of rationality, Sniper had swooped from his post and down into the pipes, carrying the young man with a speed that, Scout had noticed even in his state, could damn well rival his own in an emergency...

And that was it exactly; he had been an emergency. Scout was the only thing on Sniper's mind that day and he knew it. Even as they whizzed past their comrades, who had to shake their heads to make sure they really hadn't seen their Sniper rushing toward the infirmary with an enemy Scout in his arms, he only ran forward.

Scout can only gaze softly at the man who was more or less his hero (in a variety of ways...), his eyes glazed with longing as he surveys the man still bustling over the heated beverage, only now noticing that the man had his hat and glasses off...

Scout decides not to say anything, his face flushing a healthy red as he remembers that the hat and glasses had always stayed on, Sniper nearly regarding them as children, and grew annoyed whenever Scout had playfully tried to take them.

Those grey eyes, those same grey eyes Scout had only seen a few times without the obstruction of lenses, and yet long since committed to memory, are always so warm and caring as he adds just the perfect amount of milk he knew Scout likes in his tea. The young man accepts the mug into his hands with a soft "Thanks" before he careens his gaze so it fixes itself on the slowly undulating liquid, too hot to sip just yet.

"Y'need to be careful, climbin' up hereif one of my lot sees you, they could think you're up to no good,"

"Yeah, well, you'd stick up for me, right? You'd tell 'em we're friends and I don't mean nothin' by it!" Scout beams, Sniper laughing incredulously, shaking his head as always.

"Why you always gotta shake your head like you don't believe what you're hearin' or somethin'?"

"Because half the time I don't, 'nd as much as I'd like t'stick up for ya, I can't say I'm in the mood to openly admitting to committin' treason," Sniper explains moodily, taking a sip of his tea and continuing promptly. "I'd rather not get our contracts terminated 'nd discharged if I can avoid it,"

Scout nods and lets a soft mutter of understanding slip through his pursed lips.

"In other words, I'd quit coming up here if I were you, doosie," Sniper sighs, Scout scoffing and twirling the mug about in his hands.

"I woulda thought it wouldn't be that big o' deal, bein' ceasefire an' all..."

"Well, things are more complicated than they seem; and you need t'watch out after yourself," Sniper warns. "Just because we're calmin' it all down for now, that doesn't mean one of us doesn't have a gun pointin' 'round our base at all times"

"Yeah, yeah..."

"And they could think you're tryin' to explode the nest"

"What, do I look like a freakin' Demoman? You need to tell your REDS to settle down and quit drawin' those conclusions"

"Settlin' down and turnin' blind eyes is how people get slaughtered out here, mate! I've seen it happen a million times over, the team that snoozes, they always get destroyed"

"So jeeze, what am I suppos'ta do then, walk around with a fuckin' minigun?" Scout booms, Sniper rolling his eyes and growling from irritation. "You need to be more watchful of yourself, make sure that you're ready for anythin' at any time"

"Alright, alright, champ, I came up here 'cause I wanted to see you, not get no lectures on self defense from no dingbat"

"Well 'scuse for simply tryin' to make sure they aren't scrapin' your pasty gibs off the side of a building, love!"

"That's where you're worryin', I got this!" Scout beams, Sniper smirking at his smugness. "You ain't gotta worry about me, slugger..."

"There're only so many times I can save you out there, Lawrence..." Sniper mumbles, Scout jumping at the usage of his real name, his eyes rooted onto the man who sits in the opposite corner still. It always startled him when they addressed each other by their actual names, the only things left untainted by the identities of war. Scout always did love the Australian growl Sniper packed behind the pronunciation of a name Scout had never been content with, shuddering pleasantly on the rarity he heard it huskily spoken-  
>"I mean it, boyo I've got my eye on you out there, but..."<p>

Scout smiles as he can tell by the hazy, distant look in Sniper's eyes that he too remembers the day he risked both their lives to save the younger of the two.

"S'alright, I know what you mean..."

"I dunno what I'd do if I ever lost you, gremlin," Sniper clears his throat, avoiding his eye by taking a sip of tea.

"Well, you won't!" Scout assures him with that familiar cockiness, blushing however as he winks at the older man.

"I promise..." Scout nods, falling silent as he meets his best friend's eyes.

"Jack?" Scout asks quietly, catching Sniper's attention, and the stillness in the air is debilitating, the silence heavy and yet so perfect.

"Jack," Scout asks again, sighing a bit as he snatches the cap from his head, kneading it nervously in his hands.

"What is it, gremlin?" Sniper asks quietly, his expression soft with a smile, the insult coated in affection. But within seconds he knows what it is, because the young man places his cup gently against the floor before sitting himself gently next to Sniper upon the crate the older man sits, their legs touching as Sniper takes the thin, tape wound hand into his, letting their fingers curl.

Scout always loved the feeling of the blood rushing to his ears, deafening his sense of anything that wasn't now, that now being Sniper, the older man pulling Scout by his hips so that he falls closer against him, their lips brushing gently before Scout goes ahead and steals them in a gentle kiss.

They'd always been so few, these kisses; the two, who cared deeply for each otheryet were so haughty and unable to submit themselves to the emotion of the otherwho could hardly even admit to there being any sorts of emotions between them extending even a little past friendship, never let it all get too far for a variety of reasonsone being no time for anything other than friendship, when 'time' was controlled by the hoarse ode to 'us versus them'. The other being, well, the otherboth men were very reluctant to accept their love for what it was. But Sniper, for once, just smiles into their kiss, abandoning any pretense of bridling reluctance as Scout's fingers curl along the base of his neck, the long, runner's body hovering over him, obviously enjoying this brief lack of self consciousness himself.

It was a relief, after all, the stinging reality of this lethal limbo suddenly diminishing under the simple press of lips against his, Scout the only one in ten years Sniper'd found was blessed with the gift of stifling any sense of expectant, morbid watch he's keeping for whatever reason.

This damn Scout, Sniper curses, laughing internally at the way his own team's Scout was slightly shorter, a blonde, and much, much calmer in temperment...and yet his proclaimed enemy, the complete opposite of himself, is the one he holds in his arms, his fingers ruffling through the light brown strands of fine hair he normally keeps hidden away underneath the grey cap.

"You musta been missin' me, you can hardly get enough!" Scout beams, sitting on his friend's lap, arms wrapped around his neck.

"Like I'd ever miss a cheeky little wanka like you," Sniper snarls, Scout shrugging off the serious tone and grinning.

"Yeah, yeah, you say thatI know you don't mean it," he winks, Sniper biting back on the fact the he very much meant it, that he found Scout to sometimes be insufferably nerve wracking, cocky, and immature. Yet as he mumbles a gruff "come 'ere" before pulling the boy into a hug and kissing his soft lips again, Sniper realizes for the first time that it didn't stop him from loving Scout any less.


	2. The Huntsman

It's not long until Sniper can tell by the sound of impatient knuckles crashing in spastic annoyance against the metal door that it is Scout who waits impatiently on the other side. Sniper had to wonder to himself just how far along had he gone down the path of life until the sound of Scout's hands against a slab of iron had it's own distinct modifier in his thoughts—it could have been any other way when the young man was knocking on it all the time.

The knob jiggles forcefully, rotating in jerky, circulatory motions, quiet at first but growing in intensity and velocity. The passionate yelp of pain and the loud "Shit!" that follows only confirms Sniper's prediction of Scout's presence residing on the other side of the metal. The lock attempts in a violent thrashing to break its restraints. The door to the camper rattles under the command of a determined guise of entry, but to the door opens to no avail.

He figures if he were to just ignore the knocking, Scout would give up and go away. And yet, Sniper knew without a doubt that no amount of time would make the young man responsible for the disturbance of his peace truly disappear.

But ultimately, he was in power. As it was, Sniper was the one who had the ability to flick the lock so as to grant the Scout entrance. He grins maliciously as this knowledge settles itself into his mind, taking a drag of the cigarette he enjoys silently (and he curses Luc for getting him back into such a habit). His expression is soft and at ease, lost in the high of their victory over BLU that had taken place hardly twenty minutes ago.

The van's windows are blocked with the typical blinds that are rarely ever seen drawn, casting the interior of the Australian's living quarters in an unbecoming darkness. It was this darkness, Scout said, that only furthered the rather scathing joke that Sniper was nothing short of a creepy, grumpy 'old man' (though thirty six was far from deserving the label of being old and decrepit). It wasn't a dirty hideaway—he prided himself in his cleanliness, however the musk of smoke and incense wafts about due to the lack of ventilation (and he'll be damned if he opens a window, he had no doubt Scout would climb through the thing in an effort to get inside—).

"I know you're in there, ya bastard—!" Scout's muffled, angered voice is drowned out however by his own incessant pounding, growing only more forceful and aggravated with each second and each rap. Sniper simply leans back against the wooden chair he sits upon, the back of it digging grooves into his shoulders. Did Scout not know it was common decency to let a man have his peace after battle?

'Like the twitchy little bugger knows anythin' about social cues...'

"Open up—! It's fuckin' cold out here—!"

Sniper chuckles as he revels in the satisfaction of placing his gloved hand against the dial of the small space heater he has running near the kitchenette, the whirring doing a bit to dull the pounding on the frozen door.

"Jaaaaack—!"

'Perhaps I'm bein' a bit of an arse'

Regardless of whether or not he was, Jack could hardly say he had either the time or desire to entertain or babysit his enemy in this particular moment. The idea of his own bit of quiet, a time to hear his own thoughts, teased him wildly, and Sniper knew Scout wouldn't be going anywhere if he were to actually break down and let him in—

"Jesus, kid!" Sniper shouts as the van starts rocking violently, the young man obviously threatening to tip the vehicle over—

"I'm comin', I'm comin'! You win, you damn mongrel—!" and he wrenches the door open, the heat rushing out in a swift wall and the piercing wind and snow swirling outside gust their way presumptuously into his home. Sniper makes a point to glare rather nastily down at the pathetic runner who stands huddled in the snow, snarling where he was certain Lawrence's brow was rendered motionless by frostbite.

Scout stands with only his standard blue shirt, coatless with his arms tucked away under his body. The Australian allows his eyes to roll at the shivering young man, whose whole frame glows a bluish white, his arm hair tipped with white frost that forms a chilling settlement on Scout's frozen skin.

"'Bout time, Dingo! Was startin' to think you weren't home!" the American beams, his mood changing swiftly as he invites himself into the van, tracking snow in from his cleats. Sniper scoffs and throws a dish towel on the slippery puddles his visitor carelessly drips onto the floor, catching a glimpse of thick snowflakes that cling to Scout's eyelashes as he whizzes by.

"What took you so long—?!"

"'S none of your business, mongrel," Sniper reaches for a cold beer and pops it open; it would take a lot of alcohol to make this hooligan tolerable in this particular moment.

"Make it quick, Lawrence, I ain't got time for listenin' t'ya go on about nothin'."

"Yeah right, like you got shit to do—" Scout scoffs, plopping into the single fuchsia armchair and piece of tradtionally "regular" furniture the Australian possessed. It sinks under his weight, but the chatterful young Scout seems hardly bothered by the chair's depression.

"I do, and if y'got a hard time believin' it, I'll throw ya right back out there'nd let y'wait until I'm finished—"

"Jeeze, okay! But it's your own fault I'm botherin' ya—maybe next time you shouldn't shoot no damn arrows at people if you don't want'em interruptin' your precious schedule and pesterin' you about it later—!"

Sniper grumbles moodily as he takes a sip of the beer, placing it on the counter.

'So that's what this is all about...'

"Right; Guess I landed one in ya, earlier, eh?" Sniper asks caringly, Scout nodding.

"Well maybe next time y'should try not standin' around like a braindead ox—"

"I wasn't, you're just a fuckin' freak with that aim! I mean shit! What the fuck else was I supposed to do?!"

"'Course I'm a fuckin' freak, Scout, I'm a bloody sniper for God's sake! If I couldn't hit a sluggish little piece o'target practice like you I'd be a disgrace t'the occupation!" Sniper beams at the rise that flusters Scout, who always takes the bait of Sniper's inadvertent insults so easily...

"Um, last time I checked I was the best Scout on BLU or RED, slugger, so you better watch who you call slow,"

Sniper lets out a sarcastic grunt at the younger man's threat.

"The best, dinki di?!"

"Yeah, I got a medal from the Administrator and everything!" Scout grins, obviously very proud of himself.

"Ooo, you're a big note medal winner now?" Sniper asks with that same mocking voice of fascination, taking another swig of beer.

"Hey, don't fuckin' talk to me like that—!"

"I'll talk t'you however I bloody well want to mate, 's my house you're in—"

"Since when is this dump of a van a house—?!"

"Since before you were even in school, kid, I got this van when I was eighteen—you were what, six and still learnin' to use the toot?"

"You know you ain't funny, right?" Scout asks with a raised eyebrow. "Over here talkin' about toots, I don't even know what the fuck a toot is—"

"Well that's your fault, assumin' I'm tryin' to be a comedian—"

"So you mean you got this thing when you were eighteen?! So what, did you always know you was gonna be killin' kangaroos on the go 'n shit—?!"

"I've never killed any 'kangaroos', 'nd it was a gift from my father back when 'e was actually still talkin' t'me—I used t'travel with my friends when I was younger, we'd sleep right back there..."

"Ha—friends..."

"Listen, Scout, I don't plan on sittin' here with ya all day, so what the Hell 's'it y'want from me—?!"

"I already told you, that arrow shit!"

"So it's an apology you want?" Sniper eyes him sympathetically, his voice low with regret.

"Hell yeah, I do—!"

"Oh, Lawrence..." Sniper tisks, taking off his hat and placing it lightly on the table. "I'm sorry I didn't just shoot ya in the head'nd finish it—"

Sniper chuckles as Scout furrows his brow and punches his shoulder moodily, Sniper masking his wince with light laughter, holding the quickly bruising arm nonetheless.

"That ain't funny—!"

"Put a Band aid on it'nd get the Hell over it! 'S what happens in war, y'show your face in enemy territory, it gets shot!"

"It still fuckin' hurts!"

"Well who the bloody Hell do I look like, mate?! I'm not your damn doctor, go take it up with your medic, and tell 'im dear old RED Sniper got you—"

"The Doc's too busy takin' care of Mikhail to help me out, Snipes! And then our Soldier got hurt pretty bad too! There's a line! He said I'd have to wait!"

"Well you're bloody stupid gettin' outta line then, daisy,"

But Sniper sighs heavily as Scout shifts to show his arm, the arrow the Australian had shot into him an hour ago still lodged deeply in his bicep. "I mean it," Scout whines, his eyes watering from a very real pain as they bore into the older man's.

"You're the only one who can help me out—our Sniper doesn't deal with this arrow shit, and it really hurts, Jack," Scout whimpers. Sniper rolls his eyes, though silently observing the seriousness Scout displays; it wasn't like him to wince and plead over an injury, after all. "Come 'ere,"

He grabs hold of Scout with a distinct hint of affection, leading him gently onto his bed before rummaging about the van, collecting various first aid supplies, mumbling irritably under his breath. "Why didn't y'tell me you needed it taken out—?!" Sniper snaps as he takes Scout's arm into his hands, rubbing alcohol around the puncture wound.

"I tried!"

"No, you were standin' around bitchin' outside'nd tryin' to tip over the damn van!" Sniper corrects him, resting a relaxing hand gently on Scout's cheek as the bruenette winces, closing his eyes shut from the stinging pain of the disinfectant.

"What the Hell's the matter with you?! Carryin' on whole entire buggerin' conversations like y'don't have a damn bolt in your shoulder—Try t'breath, kiddo, this'll hurt—"

"I ain't no kidd—GWARGHARGH!" The Australian jumps as the Scout absolutely wails, fidgeting and twisting, elbowing the older man forcefully.

"Stop that, you're only deepenin' the thing!"

"OOOOOWWWWWW!"

"GAAHH—!" Sniper screams as Scout's arms tighten around him, locking him in a steeling grip as if choking the Australian somehow eased the pain.

"LAWRENCE, STOP—MOVING—!"

Scout's fingernails cut deeply into Sniper's arm as he attempts pulling the arrow from his skin again, the groans of pain and his beating heart accelerating as Sniper finally yanks it out, tossing it. "There," he nods, tears rushing rampantly down his reddened face, Sniper lapping up the blood with a cloth.

"Sorry, Lawrence," Sniper whispers in his ear, taking some gauzes and wrapping the sniffling young man's arm gently. "Really, now, you're lucky 't was jus' a shot to the arm! If you were anyone else I woulda shot your damn eye out!"

"Well lucky me, looks like I got the magic touch or somethin', 'cause I guess I'm fuckin' special," the young man spits, Sniper cocking an thick eyebrow, baring his teeth at the ungrateful Scout. "Oi, you'd rather I'd just went on with it 'nd ended your little life right then 'nd there?!"

"Over a fuckin' briefcase, though?!" Lawrence snaps, running his hand along his tender forearm. "You're sayin' you really woulda killed me over a goddamn briefcase..."

"'S my job, mate, the same way it's yours t'risk your life t'go after it—'nd kill those that stop you from taking it!"

"Yeah, but—"

"Obviously you were out there dodgin' things much worse than sharpened flint on your way t'steal it!"

"Yeah, but you're my friend!"

"I only shot you in the arm because you're my friend, love—I woulda killed anyone else—notice how I let you take the bloody intel anyway!" Sniper reminds him, rubbing his arm gently.

"Then why'd you fuckin' shoot me if you were just gonna let me take it?!"

"T'make sure your dumb arse didn't try comin' after it again! What if you'd tried t'capture it and I hadn't been there, but it were our Soldier, or our Demo?! What if our Engineer had a sentry ready—?!"

"You act like I don't take on your team on a daily basis-"

"Not one on one, y'don't! Y'may move fast, but it's the support o'the others that helps you advance, Lawrence..."

"So then this ain't even about the intel, you just didn't want me gettin' caught by no one else 'cause you're afraid they would've tried to hurt me!"

"Tried?! Doesn't take much t'break your skinny arse in half, love!" Scout laughing in breathy, dorky heaves at the flustered redness creeping up Sniper's face. "You're hardly anythin' indestructible—"

"Hey, yeah! That's it! You just don't want nobody hurtin' me!"

"Wanka—"

"You always say that when I'm right!"

"But you better keep your grimey little fingers off our intel—"

"Or else what?!"

"Or else I'll nail a damn bullet through your skull—!"

"You couldn't even if you wanted to! 'Cause I'm—"

"I know, I know, faster than a speeding bullet, you bloody—"

"You're damn right I am—!"

"So y'wouldn't've guarded your own intel if ya saw me lungin' for it?!"

"I wouldn't'a shot ya, though!"

"'Nd that's why the Administrator gets so riled up when friendships are made—y'know your Soldier and our Demoman were—'nd I'm sure still are—inseparably good friends, 'nd look at them!"

"Yeah, but sometimes I gotta wonder if we ain't more than friends—!"

"And yet they're constantly squarin' off! They're prolly each other's best friend 'nd worst enemy 'cause they know that bitch of an Admin would hack 'em if they acted otherwise—it's our jobs," Sniper ignores Scout, handing him a cold beer and popping it open with a bottle opener. "Yeah, I guess..." Scout sighs in an oddly quiet voice so unlike his own. He takes a sip from his bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You don't think Tavish cries to Jane when he gets a rocket to the face, or Jane bombs him soaked in tears when he gets to close to one o' them stickies—!"

"Whatever..."

"...It'll take a bit o'time for it t'heal properly—I wouldn't suggest fidgetin' about like you do..."

"Runnin's all I do, Snipes, you can't just expect me to sit out—"

"We've three days until our next mission, and if you're not feeling better by then, I damn well suggest you sit the match out, 'cause I don't need you gettin' slaughtered out there by my comrades," Sniper snaps sternly, Scout furrowing his brow inward.

"Hey—! Can't noneovum touch me 'cept you, with your damn arrow shit..." Scout snaps as Sniper chuckles coldly.

"You just be happy I wasn't aimin' to kill ya," Sniper smiles, Scout holding his hand against his arm gingerly.

"I dare ya, Snipes—face me one on one, I'd kick your—hey-hey-HEY!" Scout yelps as Sniper curls him into a dominant grip, though careful to avoid his injured arm.

"Don't forget I'm formidable in any range, love, I've wrangled crocodiles twice your size," Sniper growls teasingly in his ear, the younger man trying to squirm free.

"This don't mean nothin'—"

"Oh what, was I s'pposed t'give ya a head start?" the Australian chuckles, letting the boy go. "Maybe y'can outrun me, but you better hope I don't catch you, 'cause if I do—"

"What—?"

"You'd regret it, boyo,"

"You'd still have to catch me first," Scout beams before standing up, placing the empty bottle on the table. "Well, I know you want me to go—I can take a hint—and you got your 'business' you need to take care of, you claim you're so damn busy—probably fappin' or some gay shit," Scout yawns, looking at the older man who leans against the sink expectantly.

"You ain't even gonna see me out the door, huh?! I swear you don't got no manners for a 'polite, efficient sniper',"

"You're one to talk about manners, tippin' over a bloke's home when he's not fast enough t'the door!" Sniper spits, Scout wrinkling his nose and saying nothing until he rubs the forearm of the sore appendage.

"Uh, thanks, for uh—takin' the arrow you shot in me out..."

"My pleasure," Sniper tips his glasses at the American, who turns to leave with a final nod goodbye.

"Alright then—see ya,"

"Toodles,"

"'Kay, I'm leavin'—!"

"Well get bloody goin'!" Sniper rolls his eyes, Scout trudging out of the kitchenette and toward the darkened door.

'He yells at me for botherin' him, sayin' he borderline hates me—but then he doesn't want me to get hurt'n says that he cares about me?! Dude spends half the time denyin' he even does...so fuckin' weird...'

He gasps however as he feels the unmistakably long arms of the older man snake around his waist and torso. "Caught you, you bloody mutant," he whispers in Scout's ear, whose eyes widen and body loosens just a bit, though he still tries to keep that same scathing tone all the while.

"This don't count, though, I wasn't even really tryin'..."

Sniper mumbles before tightening his grip, resting his chin on Scout's shoulder.

"It never counts with you, 'nd y'only get so many do overs, love..."

"Lemmie guess, I ran out?" Scout laughs before kissing Sniper's cheek softly as he nods.

"I'm not goin' t'tell you t'be more careful out there again..." he threatens, and Scout grunts, though Sniper can also feel Scout's chest heave under laughter.

"It's only you I gotta be careful of..."

"All the more reason why you should take my warnin' seriously, love..." Sniper says matter of factly, turning Scout to face him before the two share a speechless gaze.

Lawrence can only stand still as Sniper cranes his neck downward, kissing the corner of his mouth with a gentle press of his lips. But Scout catches him off guard, kissing him outright. He hears the smack of their lips as they slowly pull apart, Scout silently waiting for the cue to continue before doing so outright; it was a strange tango, the two had developed…

Much to Scout's surprise, Sniper smiles down at him; it was commonplace for the two to shudder away from intimacy—understandably so, as the two weren't even really a "couple". As if Scout could ever let it get so far, with the looming connotation being with Sniper bundled with the title of homosexuality —Sniper of course fearful of being the one to place such a label upon him when Scout was not ready.

But Scout sighs and hopes to himself that neither of their own anxieties would appear to rob them of this particular moment; moments that had only started after Sniper had saved his life some ten months ago...Scout couldn't say what it was about the ordeal that altered his view of the Australian, but whatever it was it had led to instances of trance like intimacy such as these sprinkled about the normal, bickering filled days of their unlikely friendship.

Shaking his head, Scout slowly lifts his good arm to drape around Sniper's shoulder.

"Take care these next few days; don't do anythin' strenuous, and don't try pickin' any fights, 'cause you won't win—I'm not afraid t'shoot another o'the bloody things at ya, 'nd if I have t'dart your twitchy arse t'the wall I will..."

"You're weird, wombat," Scout grins, frozen completely as the man before him brings his hand to draw a tender path along his jaw, Scout's skin tingling under the rough and yet gentle, tantalising influence of Sniper's fingertips.

"...Only you would keep a dude safe by shootin' shit in'im,"

""S long as it gets the point across, I reckon the methods aren't really all that tellin'..." Sniper whispers in that feral growl that always signified to Scout that the marksman was falling prey to the younger man's allure...

Scout both loved and feared (for lack of a better word) his ability to rouse such a carnal rendition of the Australian. It was strange, Scout felt, the way the two could never utter an "I love you" to each other, the way, Scout often felt, that he often liked to pretend that he had no feelings for the older sharpshooter; in the same way he knew Sniper feared the tip toe of a line that when crossed would forever brand the Bostonian as his most feared "classification"— a queer.

It was okay, Scout felt, kissing Sniper and all (or attempting to before Sniper would shove him off the longer it went on), as long as they remained "friends". Boyfriends, Scout felt, were something entirely different. Only fags had boyfriends. Scout had always made a mental note that they weren't boyfriends. They'd never come out with or mentioned anything along the lines of 'any of that dating shit', as Scout called it.

Just quick jabs at the other, a tender friendship, and a nice make out (between to friends, mind..) every now and then. That's all it was.

And yet, it had to've been something much, much more than friendship that causes the tips of Sniper's fingers to trail along the edge of his hips...even if Scout refused to see it that way.

He found the sultry, accented whispers of his Sniper all too, well, sexy. And yet, as much as Scout could feel his body react to the smooth timbre that was a lascivious Sniper, a part of him also retreated in the comfort of his internal reassurance that this was his damn show, that no matter what, he, Scout, was always running things—even when he wasn't.

He hated the way his loud, imposing demeanor suddenly diminished itself to that of an inexperienced klutz whenever Sniper's strokes or embraces became that telltale gentle. It seemed almost as if Sniper knew to approach him softly, and that softness, he thought, only caused Sniper to view him as a kid.

He didn't want it to be obvious that he was basically a virgin (quick hand jobs from girls whose names you can't even remember don't count much for sex—). It was bad enough being twelve years younger than the man; it was bad enough, Scout always felt, constantly having to prove that the twelve years between them meant nothing.

Appearing childlike in Sniper's eyes, his hero's eyes, was always a glaring worry of his. He never wanted to stand out to Sniper as a naïve, ignorant boy who knew nothing of the world. One could say Scout simply wanted that the rugged hunter saw him with just a small glint of the same rose coloured eyes of admiration Scout saw him with. And yet the only way to mask this one glaring suggestion of weakness was to coat it all heavily in a haughty armor of emotional impenetrability.

Scout's eyes widen as he finds himself stuck in a linear pull, the yellowed lenses of the man's glasses doing nothing to mask the strain of gravitation Sniper's eyes command. His thumb rests against the corner of Scout's lips, the ridged print of his finger spreading a smooth sensation across the cheek Sniper had always regarded as so unblemished and glowing, the lithe frame of the runner so easy to slip into his arms...

"Don't be shy, love," Sniper chuckles, for Scout's subconscious whimper and turn of the head had prevented him from honing in and capturing the reddening lips in his own.

"I ain't shy—I just ain't in no fuckin' baby makin' mood!" Scout snaps, Sniper kissing Scout briefly before putting space between them, complying with the young man's wishes.

Scout sighs, scratching behind his bead, casting a stare at the man who now bustles about near the back of the camper, the longing eyes of the brunette going unnoticed against his back. He actually wouldn't mind taking it a little further this time—but it was too late to come to this realisation, he'd already killed any sort of mood Sniper was in...

"So do you want me to stay or go?!" Scout asks impatiently, though hoping the taller man lets him stay; he cherished his moments with Sniper, and, though he probably spent more time with the marksman than with his actual team, he still felt that they simply weren't together enough.

"Depends on if you want to help me with my business or not," Sniper grins, Scout's eyes widening.

"Not that kind o'business you dirty bugger—!" Sniper sighs as Scout grins devilishly.

"I don't know any other kind o' business, wombat—"

"You're a like a bloody tot with his fuckin' 'ead in the gutta,"

"Woulda been different if you weren't just fondlin' me two seconds ago!" Scout winks.

"Well either way, I'm not plannin' on buggerin' ya—"

"I hope it ain't no cleanin', I sure as Hell ain't no housewife..."

"I was just hopin' to catch some sleep, but of course here you come like always—"

"Now ain't the time for sleep! There's so much to do, Snipes!"

"Yeah, my mind sure is racin' with wonderful activities to engage in while snowed in on a cold as piss battlefield—pardon me for not thinking of a thousand and one things t'do around here—!"

"You gotta car, we could go into town and—"

"Get my arse accused of kidnapping BLU's Scout?!"

"It ain't kidnappin' if I'm over eighteen for one, and for two, it ain't kidnappin' if I let you take me," Scout smiles, winking as he attempts to dazzle his friend with a smooth smile.

"Not tryin' t' be a downer, but honestly, I'm havin' a bit of trouble really believin' that your BLUs'll see it that way,"

"Who cares what they think though?!"

"Scout..."

"Fine, we'll stay here then," Scout pouts, turning his head moodily.

"I'm plannin' on takin' a nap, so it's about to get very unexcitin' for ya," Sniper's muffled voice explains as he folds his vest neatly and lifts his shirt above his head, revealing a browned chest faintly scarred here and there with the gashes of hunting, the small patch of chesthair having neither grown nor shrunk since the last time Scout'd seen it.

"Man, you old people sure are boring..."

"I'm not old, Lawrence, I'm just tired after dominatin' your spastic arse on the battlefield—"

"You got me once—!"

"And you'll never forget it," Sniper beams, replacing his slacks with a comfortable pair of pajama bottoms, cracking his back and heading toward the in the back of the van, Scout biting down on his lower lip as he watches Sniper pull back the made blankets he had sprawled across the length of the down mattress he'd managed to squeeze into the camper.

"Alright, I guess I'll go then..."

"I'm not kickin' you out, believe it or not; you're more than welcome to nap with me," Sniper grins, Scout blushing, but quickly turning a defensive cocky for good measure.

"I ain't no fag, man, I don't sleep with other guys!"

Sniper shrugs, opening his mouth to say he'd only gone to the door of his van a thousand times in the middle of the night to find Scout before him, asking if there was room in the bed for one more.

Sniper however says nothing of the sort. Instead he turns over, leaving the two in silence, and Scout simply stands still, biting down on his lip as he watches the man slowly doze off to sleep.

"Plus I'm surprised you'd even offer, and you're not freakin' out thinkin' that my team would notice me bein' gone long enough to nap with ya..."

Scout awaits a response from the man, yielding nothing. He'd really meant that shit was gonna get boring...Scout sighs before peeking through the blinds, the blizzard outside raging just as it was when he'd left the base.

Though Sniper, somewhere in a state well below full consciousness, is awake enough to notice that he hadn't heard the sound of a door closing. His breathing is even and inaudible, only further augmenting the sound of the Scout's awkward frozenness inside the quiet van.

Sniper would have twisted when he heard the shifting, had sleep not nearly taken him over. But as he feels the bed dip, the weight of a chin on his shoulder and the distinct feeling of thin, taped hands wrap around his torso, he knows, even in his sleep, this nap'll be a good one. Between two friends, of course.


	3. A Modest Proposal

"C'mon, please—!"

"If you ask me again I swear I'll rip your bloody tongue from your throat—!"

"C'mon, Jack! I heard our Soldier talkin' to your Demoman this mornin', they're goin' to Vegas together for their week off—!"

"Ain't that all just a field of posies—"

"C'mon—!"

"There's no way in Hell I'm cartin' your arse to Vegas—!"

"I don't even wanna go to Vegas, let's just go somewhere—!"

"No!"

"Please—?!"

"I can hardly stand ya when on duty, y'can't expect me t'tolerate you durin' unpaid leave—!"

"I sure do, and I ain't lettin' up 'til you gimmie a yes—!"

"Then you're gonna be waitin' your whole damn life for that one, daisy!" Sniper chuckles gravely, peering over his sunglasses to complete the solemn glare he flashes Scout.

"Hope you're more patient than I know ya t'be, love," Even the sympathy etched into his tone does little to mask the laborious sigh he releases at the young man's insistence, his hand still swiping the rag in clockwise motions along the small counter he'd been cleaning since the Scout's initial arrival.

"Why not?!" Scout finally huffs, his fists balled, his eyes wide and unwavering as they shine with inquisitive fury, his bottom lids puffed and glistening with the waves of frustration that threaten to spill from their edges, a characteristic left over from his feral, argumentative tactics of his childhood.

"Oh, here come the crocodile tears—!"

"I AIN'T CRYIN'—!" the Bostonian quickly denies, his lips still puckered in a childish disapproval, his face scrunched under the influence of moody disappointment, red and wrinkled like withered fruit. Sniper can't help but chuckle just a bit at the image of the young man as he stands with his arms folded, face red and lips pursed, like an overgrown toddler whose face is steeled in an effort not to submit himself to the throws of an all out tantrum.

"I know y'can get a little pouty, but Good Lord, mate, you're not usually this whiny—"

"Hey fuck you, wombat! Maybe I just wanna spend some time with ya—!"

"I'm sorry, Lawrence, but I really just don't think it's a good idea," Sniper mutters, his voice quiet and sincere as, for a brief second, he puts all haughty teasing aside.

"'S not that I don't want to spend time with you, 's just I know nothin' good would come out of it—'nd you know I like my alone time—"

"Are you kiddin' me?! You act like you're takin' a fuckin' Kindergartner on a field trip! Fuckin' _'nothin' good would come outta it'_—What's the worst that could happen—?!"

"Our teams—or God forbid the bloody Administrator—find out we're drivin' about—"

"Oh come on, everyone on our team knows Tavish and Jane are best friends—!"

"'Nd the Administrator's constantly tryin' to get them killed 'cause of it! Might not appear so obvious like she's slippin' poison in their whiskey, but come on, all those contests she sponsors between 'em, or the weapons they're always gettin' that're effective against the other specifically; I don't want her draggin'er attention onto ya, tryin' t'do you in 'cause you wanna go on a bloody roadtrip with me! Or else we could have our contracts terminated, we're dishonourably discharged without pay on account of treason—and even then we'd be damn lucky we weren't court marshalled—!"

"So you'd rather keep this fuckin' mercenary shit up than spend time with your own—your own—?!" Scout reddens as he stumbles on his own words, his flustered uneasiness only furrowing his brow and aggravating him further.

"Oh grow up, it's a Hell of a lot more complicated than you're makin' it sound—"

"Don't seem that hard to understand to me, wombat—I feel like if you offered to take a vacation with me I'd say yes—not like you're offerin', though—!"

"Nope—!"

"Maybe I'll go ask Tavish and Jane if I can spend my leave with them, then—!"

"That sounds like a bloody swell idea, it'll get you off my back—!"

"You'll be losin' your chance to spend it with me, though—!"

"D'aww, y'see the tears streamin' out my eyes, love—?"

"Don't be an ass, Snipes—!"

"I'm still sayin' no, Scout—!"

"You jerk—!"

"Scout—"

"Some friend _you_ are—!"

"Scout—!"

"After all we been through, though—!"

"After all of it—"

"Jane and Tavish are goin'—don't see why we can't—!"

"Because you're a childish, careless little git who doesn't think things through—!"

"What's there to think about—?!"

"Where we'd go, how we'd do it without makin' it clear as day we're takin' time off together—!"

"We don't have to be obvious about it though, and I swear I won't say nothin' to nobody—I'm not sayin' we gotta go to Vegas—"

"Good, 'cause even if I _did_ consider takin' you with me next week, Vegas would not be on the to-do list—you'd probably get lost or somethin' equally inane—"

"Hey, I ain't no fuckin' toddler, Snipes—!"

"Well, sure is news to me—!"

"You mean you been kissin' a toddler on and off this last year and a half?"

He got him; the comment had worked to stun the older Australian of his words, the Bostonian raising a sly eyebrow and curling his lips into a mock disgusted grimace.

"'Cause that's certainly what you're implyin' over there, ya sicko—!"

Scout laughs heartily as Sniper pinches the bridge of his nose, bringing his glare and dropping his voice into a serious growl that proceeds to erase the smirk off the younger man's face.

"I'm not a bloody pervert, Scout—now I suggest y'listen up nice 'nd good, because I won't be repeatin' myself once I've said it, dinky di,"

Scout doesn't even breathe, he fears missing even a word the Australian prepares to utter. The camper van grows quiet, almost as if the air itself knows it would be quite wise to shut up and listen to what the marksman has to say.

"You'd do best to make your own plans for next week, because I'm not takin' you with me—don't give me that pathetic look—"

"Pardon the interruption, dingo, but I don't understand how this is any different from Tavish and Jane—they're friends, they're on opposite teams, and yet I don't see them actin' like it's some huge ass forbidden thing for two friends to spend time together—"

"We're a bit more than friends, Scooter—Sorry if the thought _strikes_ ya funny," Sniper grumbles, Scout saying nothing, but visibly perturbed at the man's word choice.

"...I don't see how what we are makes a difference for real, though, it's not like anyone knows _we_ even know each other like that to begin with— even the Administrator knows that Tavish and Jane are always together—why else would she go through all the trouble to turn 'em against each other like that?!" Scout asks reasonably.

"The only reason y'can even use that as an argument is 'cause _I_ brought it up—"

"As long as it don't interfere with our jobs, I don't think the old hag gives a shit what we do with a fuckin' week's free time,"

"Dunno if you've had enough healthy friendships t'know this outright, but friendships between two civilians 're pretty time consumin'; two enemies at war, well, I'd say a distinct like for ya kinda gets in the way o'me _killin'_ ya like my job calls for..."

"Well that's just too bad, ain't it?! Cuz I'm sure we've been friends for two and a half fuckin' years now, whether you wanna admit it or not—!" Scout snaps, leaving his Sniper to mumble darkly under his breath.

"'S not me that has the issue with acceptin' the extent of relationships I _may or may not_ have with certain people..."

"You implyin' I got an issue, Snipes?! 'Cause I bet my fist would clear that shit up real fast,"

"This is why I never let you through the bloody door—!"

"Our freakin' Pyro's goin' bungee jumpin'—what if the guy comes back missin' his arms or somethin'?!—what would piss you off more—your client comin' back and missin' his fuckin' head or two people that were already involved to begin with enjoyin' one of the few moments they have to just be together without havin' to cover it up or try to kill each other?!"

Sniper rolls his eyes, allowing Scout to continue nonetheless.

"I don't want to risk makin' the bat mad, is all—I'd never forgive myself if somethin' happened t'you because of it—I mean, don't you have your family?! You last saw them for leave after your first six months, no?! Why in the Hell would you want to go with me when you haven't seen your poor mum or your brothers in nearly two years—!"

"I ain't got money for that, Snipes..." Scout mumbles, his voice cracking a little bit, the young man pouting silently.

"It ain't like I don't wanna see 'em—I love my family, ya know?! But I don't have enough—I don't make as much as you, bein' a newer recruit and all that shit—I was hopin' to save up money through Spring, maybe go back to Boston then..."

"Oh, for Christ's Sake, you mean you were plannin' on stayin' here in 2fort for leave?!" Sniper snaps, as if he can barely take the guilt.

"I mean—I was hopin' to spend it with you—that way I wouldn't be stuck here and alone, and I'd be with you at the same time..." his eyes widen curiously, the edge of pride and self assurance stripped away from his careful whisper. "Otherwise I'd be the only one left in 2fort..."

"Oh bloody Hell, Lawrence," Sniper growls, folding his arms and glaring moodily at the bruenette.

"...What sorts o'places did you have in mind?"

"None, I was willin' to go wherever you were gonna go,"

"I hadn't really thought about it—I mean I guess I had some ideas—was thinkin' 'bout drivin' the van up north to see the mountains—but overall nothin' too excitin', I don't need the adventure,"

"Neither do I!"

"'Nd I certainly don't need t'be takin' you anywhere where you'd manage to bugger things up—"

"So you are takin' me—?!"

"I haven't said that yet, Scout, don't get too cozy with the idea..."

But Scout nearly jumps into the man's arms, wrapping his own so they sneak their way around his chest, resting his head on his friend's shoulder. Sniper grimaces at his own inability to resist him, grumbling somewhat as he meets Scouts's hopefully expectant eyes.

"I haven't decided if I want t'take you, boyo, so don't act like you've won just yet,"

"C'mon, Snipes..." Scout grins, Sniper letting a hand trail through the exposed light brown hair.

"Gah," he scoffs, and he feels Scout fall closer against him, and, almost as if the two were directly proportionate, feels his resolve crumbling away the tighter their embrace gets.

"Y'have t'promise me not t'tell anyone—"

"Of course—!"

"You have t'promise t'behave yourself—"

"Got it—!"

"When I tell you t'do somethin', it'd be in your best interest to bloody well do it,"

"Sounds kinda kinky—!"

"And if—or when is more like it—you start gettin' annoyin', I reserve the right t'put your arse outside—"

"We're gonna have fun! Nobody'll be sleepin' outdoors!"

"Now, have you been up to see the mountains before?"

"Nah, we'd always just stayed in Boston, for real—"

"Then it'll be new territory for both of us, so I'm not takin' any detours or lettin' you out of my sight—"

"I ain't no baby, Snipes—!"

"I mean don't go wanderin' off into the forest and fallin' or gettin' lost—"

"You spend all your time in the wild, it ain't no big deal!"

"Exactly—don't go off alone, because if you get hurt and I don't know where you are..."

"I won't leave your van without permission!"

"Promise me?"

"Whatever you say, champ!"

"Now I think we can have a real nice time t'gether, love," Sniper smiles at the young man he still holds in his arms. "So don't make me regret this,"

"So you are takin' me?!" Scout asks brightly. "I won't," Scout corrects himself quickly, flashing him a nervous smile as he catches sight of Sniper's slight scowl.

"And I won't tell nobody, either! I'll tell 'em I'm goin' to visit Gran or somethin' if someone asks,"

Scout plops down on a chair near the sink, looking up at Sniper, who leans with his back against the counter. Scout watches as he casts a look out the window, his brow furrowed as he thinks of more 'warnings' for him to heed.

"Be dressed for the weather—just 'cause it's warmin' up a bit, doesn't mean it can't get nippy out there,"

"Yeah, yeah, whatevah, Ma—"

"You might wanna pack a colourin' book for the drive up, too,"

"Don't own a single one, Snipes—besides, it ain't like I got crayons!"

"And most of all, don't go thinkin' I broke down—I'm only lettin' you tag along 'cause I'd be a terrible—er—friend if I let you spend your leave alone," Sniper scoffs, Scout letting his eyes fall quickly to the hands folded neatly in his lap so as to avoid the scathing, critical narrowness of his friend's eyes.

"You're lucky I ain't heartless enough t'leave ya behind,"

"I think it's real nice o'ya, wombat," Scout huffs as if the wall of breath worked as a buffer between any sort of gratitude that could be misconstrued as—God forbid _affectionate or doting_. He gives Sniper a soft nod, who waves a hand of dismissal.

"My only bloody two weeks o'peace..."

"You did break down, slugger, for me," he continues, Sniper shaking his head solemnly and turning his back to Scout.

"Thanks..." Scout whispers in a voice held back by restraint, careful still to convey his sincerity without being _too_ weepy. He couldn't stand it, girls who got weak kneed over meaningless gifts or half hearted compliments (that their boyfriends only saved in hopes for wooing the girl for sex, anyway). He wasn't about to make an exception for this particular standard, either-there was no _way_ he was going to turn into an ass kisser over _Sniper_; it went against everything he _stood_ for.

"It's fine, boyo, now quit with the googley eyes," Snipee hisses from the corner of his mouth, igniting the cigarette his curled lips hold onto, shaking the match to extinguish it.

_"I ain't gettin' googley eyed-"_

"God, I'm gonna need a drink b'fore this one..."

"I promise we'll have a good time!" Scout beams, Sniper's eyes narrowing behind his lenses, his growing smile only underlying the small chuckle that heaves his chest. He had to admit, it _did_ hurt him just a bit that Sniper seemed completely unentertained about the thought of spending the next two weeks with him.

"Well I suggest you get packin', love, 's already Friday and I'm leavin' here Sunday," Sniper warns, Scout's eyes watering as the smoke itches at them harshly.

"So meet me out here Sunday mornin' 'round seven or so; don't go 'round shoutin' from the rooftops we'll be togetha like a—"

"No problem! Why in the Hell would I ever wanna admit to people I was hangin' out with your creepy ass?!" Scout beams, Sniper's devilish grin growing wider at Scout's quick insult.

"'S a good point,"

"Alright, I guess I'ma go get packin' then," Scout nods, casting a glance at the still smoking Australian.

"Good idea—I'll see you out," Sniper stretches, his thin legs carrying him with the same predatory lightness that made him soundless, lethal...

It creeped Scout out, that was for sure, considering the Australian was still technically his enemy; that a tall, well built man could cloak his own tracks, shade away his mass, and yet it was only one shot it took, one still second, and your blood was spilled according to the pull of just one of his fingers...

Scout hated thinking about it. He felt kinda bad for his team, 'cause they were the ones that had to deal with him for real...

"Alright, go on off love—I'll see ya in a couple days," Sniper whispers, cracking the door to the van, the interior instantly glowing orange from the sundown's influence.

"I'd plant one on ya, but I ain't a fag," Scout waves quickly before tearing off toward the base, Sniper shaking his head as he watches the young man's sprint weave in a red tinted blur toward the metallic base lying off in the distance.

"Bloody mutant," Sniper mumbles, twisting the knob his hand encases, turning to seek the warmth of the van that otherwise protected him from the wind of a bitter early Spring.

"I really gotta learn how to say no to ya..." he grins, sighing pleasantly at the newfound quiet that echoes throughout the van.

"If you knew 'is mozher, you'd see just where 'e gets 'is irresistibility from—"

"GAAH!" Sniper yelps, staggering behind him, the clash of lamps and tables bumping against the wall startling the man who stands in the corner.

"Calm down, calm down—!"

"What in the bloody Hell 're you' doin' here, Luc—?!"

"I suppose you would want an explanation for why I'm sitting uninvited in ze corner of your 'umble abode—"

"Do tell!" Sniper snarls, the shock of the towering man's form never ceasing to catch his 'visitors' off guard. "Why in the Hell—or rather how—did you come slitherin' in here, eh?!" Sniper attempts a nonchalant lean against the wall, his shaky breath still hinting at a nervous, fast pacing heart.

"I am a spy, Jack, granting myself entry—"

"More like breakin' in, you bloody—!"

"I can assure you I 'ad zhe purest of intentions—intentions I will gladly share wizh you should you pay me a listen—spare a cigarette, mon Ami?" Spy lifting a hand and catching the almost empty carton Sniper tosses the serene man.

"I was simply curious as to why BLU's Scout would be in such a joyful rush to our dear marksman's setup'—I figured it wouldn't hurt to follow 'is tail, make sure 'e wasn't planning anyzhing malicious against my comrade," Luc grins, his cheeks round with a dashing smile behind the balaclava that conceals his identity as always.

"I saw zhe grin, and I know zhat smile quite well, mon Ami—and anytime I've seen it, it never meant any good—"

"Whose smile?!"

"Lawrence's of course,"

Sniper's brow turns inward as he lets the flow of the man's name register within the eye of his mind.

"How d'you know his name—?!"

"I could ask you zhe same question, mon Petit..."

"So you know the gremlin too, then?! How—?!"

"Is zhat jealousy I 'ear, Jack?!" Luc darts his eyes so they bore into those of the man across from him, his suited shoulders heaving with gentle laughter.

"You 'ave nothing to worry about—I'm zhirty years older zhan Lawrence—nearly twenty zhan yourself—I can assure you I'm not after eizher of you..." the Frenchman can't help but smile at the silent relief that plays across his comrade's face.

"Not zhat age seems to play a role in your judgment, Jack—"

"What is it you're implyin' here, Frenchie—"

"Is 'e not too young for you—?!"

"Oi, I ain't a kiddie diddler, if that's where you're gettin' at! He's twenty four'nd old enough to decide who he wants to snog 'round here—plus I'd never do anythin' with him he didn't want—! 'Nd 's not like it matters, we're not even together—!"

"No, no, you misunderstand me, cher—I simply meant zhat per'aps you're just a bit older zhan Lawrence—twelve years, is it?! It is more a question of maturity on zhe brat's end—certainly 'e must drive a level headed man such as yourself crazy—"

"He can be a ruddy handful, but I ain't his babysitter, either—"

"Zough it surprises me to 'ear you are not togezher? Your interaction wizh eachother would certainly 'int ozherwise..."

"Oi, 's a bit confusin; Kid's got the hots for me, y'know? I'd be downright lyin' if I said I wouldn't do terrible things to 'im, if ya catch my drift—but it just wouldn't be right, he's no idea _what_ he wants—he said once a long time ago that he wanted, y'know, the whole deal, but y'can't just shove your hand down a bloke's pants'nd say you're not a fag 'cause you don't _love_him; mongrel's completely disillusioned, 'nd I'd rather not make anythin' official with him 'til he sorts himself the fuck out..." Sniper explains, and Luc nods softly, Sniper's subconscious release of pent up aggravation over the whole situation not slipping unnoticed.

"If you zhink you 'ave a stressful relationship with 'im, try being the boy's stepfazher—"

"Stepfather—?!"

"Naturally, Jack! I've been wizh 'is mozher fifteen years now—! I'm shocked it comes as such a surprise to you, zhough it would figure 'e wouldn't mention it—'e prefers to pretend I do not exist—Still, I would zhink 'e would 'ave told you, what wizh you being 'is boyfriend'—"

"Oi, I wouldn't call the little git my boyfriend, Luc—!"

"A rose by any ozher name would smell just as sweet—or somezhing to zhat liking—it matters little what you call yourselves—"

"I'm familiar with Shakespeare, Luc, cut the bullshit," Sniper only glaring as the Frenchman laughs that same gentle, amused chuckle.

"Pardon if I've touched a nerve, I am only making an attempt at 'umour—zhough it does not appear to 'ave worked—besides, I'd always been one to assume bushmen weren't ones for literature! Zhough you two really aren't much different from zhe ozher—per'aps it was a perfect match indeed..."

"I'm nothin' like the wanka!" Sniper pouts, Luc crushing the barely lit filter into an ash tray and giving the man his full attention.

"It is beside zhe point—zhe point being zhat I found it all so interesting zhat Lawrence would want to visit you—what business did he have wizh our Sniper?! I snuck in be'ind zhe boy as you let 'im in, and I sat in zhe corner, intrigued by zhe cross factioned friendship unfolding before my very eyes! 'Course when I saw zhe way your knees sank for him, I knew it was much more zhan friendship we were dealing with..." Luc ignores the dissaproving grunt echoing from Sniper.

"But it was a shocking zhing to see nonezheless—Lawrence 'ad never mentioned or shown signs of a—er, _friendship_— or even knowing you! And whenever 'is mozher or myself would ask about any special friends, 'e would tell me to 'fuck off' and turn red! I figured it was because 'e was a virgin—"

"He bloody well could be, I haven't buggered him!"

"'Ow long 'ave you two been—well, 'ow long 'as Scout been trying to—I 'ave no idea what you would call 'is actions—trying to_kiss_ you, I suppose..."

"What, 't's been about a year 'nd a half?! Not too long—gremlin must've had his first mission 'bout three years ago—was when I first saw his arse scurryin' 'cross the field 'nd sneakin' about in my tree..."

"Ah _yes_, your apple tree, non...?"

"Yeah; found the stupid little shit stealin' my apples! Caught'im 'nd he damn near took off when I was done with'im. Next thing I know, we're runnin' into each other on the battlefield 'nd stuff..."

"You're a strong willed man, Jack," Luc grins, darting his eyes so they flash slyly at Sniper before back to his cigarette.

"What d'you mean?!"

"Certainly you want to touch 'im, yet you've managed to refrain from doing so—"

"Hey, I actually care about him, he was never just a bugger buddy—'nd it was him that came onto me—tried my best to convince him I wasn't worth it, that I was no good for 'im," Sniper grumbles, shaking his head and giving his hand a slight twitch of disbelief.

"Y'save the kid once and then he's followin' you around; seriously, the first time I saved 'im he was always findin' me at the nest or in the camper. Save 'im a second time, 'e's your best friend; save 'im a third, well, he wants t'bugger ya,"

"Oh, I see—so 'e's been asking you for _sex_?!"

"I mean, well—_yeah_, 'nd I've been tryin' for the longest t'convince 'im that fallin' for me would only get 'im hurt, but we've only been gettin' closer, Luc, 'nd then I find that _I'm_ the one that can't help but..." Sniper clears his throat, breaking eye contact and letting his fingers strum quietly along his knees. "It's gettin' harder, Luc; he's not ready for any o'this, but if he keeps askin', I might no be able t'resist'im much longer..."

"You love 'im?" Luc grins at Sniper's hesitant expression, his muscles taught behind the barely noticeable nod he gives the man seconds later.

"More than I could ever tell 'im—which is probably why I don't—he'd flip a shit if I said that sort o'thing to'im, like he was catchin' _the gay_, or somethin' equally bloody _stupid_. I'd do anythin' for Lawrence, I really would..." Sniper's low growl, Luc can't help but observe, is stroked with a tender affection most unexpected from the rugged hunter.

"...not that the bloody hooligan needs to know..."

"I find it so strange—you 'ave a problem wizh beginning a real romantic relationship wizh 'im, yet you admit outright zhat you love 'im?"

"I love'im, sure, but I ain't serenadin'm or writin' the bugger love letters, 'specially not if it would distance'im from me..."

"No offense, Jack, but if you 'esitate only because you do not want to come to terms wizh your sexuality—zhere is no point in pretending—"

"Oi, I came to terms with myself twenty five _years_ ago—'s _him_ with the problem—always sayin' he's not a fag. Dunno what he thinks he is, always wantin' t'hump me like a rabbit—'s part'o why I don't get too schnoozy with'im, I don't wanna make him uncomfortable, right? What if it's all just a phase, like he sees me sexually 'cause o'the seclusion out here on the field—he has no idea who he is, 'nd I don't wanna do anythin' with him he'd just end up regrettin'..."

"Certainly it must 'urt for you to zhink zhe boy you love being intimate wizh you is somezhing 'e would later come to regret..."

"I—I—If he can tell me he loves me outright, no jokes, no sass, I'll think about it,"

"About what?"

"Makin' love t'him..."

"Hmm, sounds like somezhing straight out of a romance novel..."

"If I'm gonna be his first, 's gonna be when he's ready. He may not think much of it, but he doesn't understand that I really am in love with him, that there's no way I'd take somethin' like his virginity from him just 'cause he's _horny_—'course it just frustrates him, he doesn't quite get that askin' me for sex might mean he has a thing for men, so like Hell he'd ever say whether he loves me back or not,"

"It would figure zhe brat vould feel zhat way,"

"Hey, I cut'im some slack, 's not easy admittin' to yourself you like blokes—I don't wanna rush'im, 'specially not out here when we got other shit to worry about,"

"I see,"

"Imagine if you were his age, at war'n away from home—everyday could be your last, then your enemy, just one'o the nine out there to kill ya, becomes your best friend'n all of a sudden y'wanna kiss'im'n whatever else—then you gotta worry 'bout hushin' it all up so that your teams aren't accusin' ya of defectin'n choppin' your head off right there..."

"I still zhink zhe boy is not ready for any of zhis—zhe romance, zhe fighting, 'e 'as a lot of growing up to do—"

"Hey, where else is better for'im to grow up than here?!"

"You're quite avid about sticking up for Lawrence, aren't you?"

"I'm not just gonna let you sit here'n badmouth my Scout," Sniper chuckles, Luc rolling his eyes before smiling in a mock sweet adoration.

"I assume you're even more protective when it comes to someone making an attempt on 'is life?"

Sniper says nothing, but the uncomfortable shift and mumbling grunt is answer enough for the Frenchman.

"Touching, it really is—considering 'e is my stepson, I do my part to keep 'im safe too, but my mission still takes priority—you would do well to remember zhis, Jack—"

"'Course I do, that's Tavish and Jane that need the bloody lecture! I shoot the little bastard all the time when he gets too close, but they're nothin' lethal—Hell, you saw the way I tried to tell the weasel no about spendin' leave with me, that I want my time alone,"

"I also saw zhe way you went back completely on your stance as soon as 'e batted 'is eyelashes—"

"I'm not just goin' to leave 'im all by his lonesome in bloody 2fort! That's just cruel!"

"Zhe boy was fibbing just a tad, if I may say so," Luc beams, Sniper's brow furrowing from confusion.

"'E 'as zhe money to catch a train to Boston—'e simply doesn't want to because I too plan on visiting zhe lovely city next week,"

"His mother, no?"

"Correct—I can't say I don't understand, but it 'urt 'is mozher when 'e said 'e wouldn't be coming 'ome for leave,"

"I'd be squicked too if a sleazy Frenchman on the other team were datin' my mum—no offense,"

"None taken, 'tis a much milder insult zhan Lawrence will typically 'ave it—eizher way, I am shocked 'e 'as not told you about myself and 'is mozher—I'll most certainly be talking to 'im about you two..."

"Don't rile 'im up, though!"

"I just want to ask 'im why 'e never told me..."

"Aha—prolly 'cause he can't even tell _me_, Luc..."

"You two 'ide your _emotions_ very well—"

"Yeah, the other option bein' discovered by the Administrator!"

"I can agree inciting 'er attention in such a situation would be most unwise—but would you two really be more open wizh affection if you didn't 'ave 'er to worry about?"

"Dunno, Luc—'s kinda hard bein' romantic with the bloody little mutant when he's callin' me old 'nd screamin' 'bout how he's not a fag..."

"Again, it is what leads me to question 'is maturity..."

"Oi, that's just who he is..."

"Yes, but 'is brothers all have long since taken my dating zheir mozher just fine—fifteen years and 'e still' be'aves like zhe ten year old monster 'e was'..."

"He's the baby of the family, he's probably just jealous of ya—imagine havin' six older brothers with girlfriends and then when it's finally your turn for the spotlight, your mum's all starry eyed over someone else! Bein' the _gay_ brother I'm sure is hard for him to deal with—!"

"Zhen it is 'is own fault 'e is so 'urt—'is mozher loves all 'er sons very much, no matter what! We would accept 'im for 'is sexuality; all of us!"

"That don't mean shit if you can't accept it for yourself—trust me, I know, 'nd my parents weren't as open about it. But he's a sensitive bugger, even if he doesn't want you to think so..."

"Well it is glaringly obvious! Someone would do well to inform 'im,"

"The little bastard grows on you, he does," Sniper sighs, Luc standing up and flashing his comrade a dashing smile.

"Indeed; it was a nice chat, marksman," he nods in a tone of finality, checking the watch around his wrist. It was funny, Sniper never actually knew the damn thing told time.

"I will most certainly pay Lawrence a visit and tell 'im to mind 'is manners zhis week,"

"Don't give him too hard of a time, he beats himself up enough—I see it in 'im, poor thing..."

"Non, of course not—I'll not spoil all your fun," the Frenchman casts the Australian a departing nod, and in the brilliant flash of a dazzling smile he is nowhere to be seen. The door to the van opens, and the Spy can be neither seen nor heard in his departure.


	4. Insubordination

**A/N The following is a "flashback" of sorts, before Scout and Sniper decided on a relationship. Also I invented the word "knowledgenlessness" and you're gonna deal with it.**

Sniper can feel his heart give an exceptional pump and his throat become leathery, his thoughts finding themselves fleeing nowhere other than back onto the very boy he waits on. It causes the rise of Sniper's chest, the silent, steady breathing, to remain although unnoticeable in sight or sound, that much quicker in between. He hated it, the piercing knowledgelessness that came with anticipation.

With his eyes fixed on the BLU base, he can only spare a blinking eye every now and then, gritted teeth clenched as if holding them tighter provided some sort of comfort in all of this.

Hell, the man'd already debated just marching into the base and demanding to see their Scout. He knew such a march in would _definitely_ require a bit of explanation in his behalf, but, in the romanticized eyes of the man who saved him earlier, many processes in the sequence of events can stand to be skipped.

But it would require an uncharacteristically brash charge from the Australian, a recklessness he all too often accused and chastised Scout for acting upon...

So instead he waits here, by the apple tree that had been barren since the changing of seasons, though whether it was due to Scout picking off all the fruit like every summer or the natural order of things, Sniper did not know.

Of course it stood, surreal in its stature, and Sniper wondered if anyone else besides himself and the young Scout even knew it was there. After all, he who paid attention to flora in a haze of automatic weapons and flying projectiles wouldn't be around long enough for speculation...

Either way, Sniper best hoped no one else knew about it, otherwise their intentions to meet discreetly beside it would only cause an uproar of violent accusations and assuredly lethal misunderstandings.

Sniper folds his arms, grumbling as a sickness festers in his stomach, his mind growing short in its patience as well as anxious. Images of the bleeding young man coiled and choked beneath his own blood, his own injury, play out of his memory. Sniper can still hear the young man screaming in a drowning agony that had frozen the man to shreds earlier that day.

His own team's Scout had apparently gotten into a bloody scrimmage with his blue counterpart in the sewers of 2fort—with no ammo and nothing but bats and crowbars, the two wailed viciously on each other, Sniper's own comrade emerging from the encounter as the victor...

Sniper had the rifle's scope suctioned to his eye as always, his lips pointed downward in a painstaking concentration that required the whole of him. His slender fingers slid along the rifle's length in a sickening curl that outstretched along the literal boundaries of life or death.

An eerie silence swept along the battlements and the rickety bridge overlying the filthy sewage ways underneath the two forts. Sniper clenched his brow as the length of the war zone became so silent in fact that the distant sounds of calm could be heard if one strained their ears hard enough.

Sniper didn't mind this, either, for the silence only heightened his sense of motionless fixation, mind, sight, and all things sensory related steeled in a brace that could only assure death to those who dared to stumble within his range, _save_...

Sniper narrowed his eyes as the soft timbre of anguish driven moans emanated from the depths of the sewers Sniper was certain had been empty. He could hear the rugged screech of Tavish's warcry in the battlements below, the unmistakable sound of pipe bombs exploding setting off a rumble that still does nothing to stifle the groaning.

He _knew_ the voice, he did; Sniper _knew_ the calling from the sewers, and his heart froze and he could feel the striking pound of its beat against his lungs the second it became very apparent to him _that_, the only voice he _recognised_ whose sound caught his attention was Scout's.

It didn't help that in a flash of hot anxiety he realised that he hadn't seen the young man the whole battle—he'd caught sight of a flash of blue sliding into the water perhaps some ten minutes ago, but his own team's Scout had trailed behind the intruder, and there was no telling whether said intruder was truly BLU's Scout or not.

Still, he'd seen neither figure exit the pipes, and with a swift glance the man scanned the field with increasing worry for the sign of the runner, his breathing catching itself as his eyes darted from the bridge to the slight cracks of the balcony, checking even the shadows for a sign of his friend.

"Scout," the Australian grumbled as he finally lowered the rifle completely, and he could actually hear the blood throbbing against his ears as a welling instinct within him writhed in a brief, shiver inducing paralysis throughout his frame; it all felt wrong, so _very_ wrong—his Scout was somewhere, somewhere and very much in trouble—he _needed_ Sniper, and Sniper knew it.

He also _knew_ it was fundamentally insubordinate when he leapt carelessly from his nest, his ankles cracking as he landed against the hard wooden planks of the bridge, though he jumped the rails, splashing into the mucky dregs of sewage water, wading his way into the circular pipes. It never occurred to him to turn the corner with caution of sentries or Pyros, the echoes of his splashing footsteps doing little to mask the moaning boy who begged for help at the other end.

Sniper had gasped at the view of Scout's shattered frame rested against the circular pipe, blood pouring from his mouth in thick sheets. His eyes were lidded so heavily that Sniper, for a moment, had to wonder whether he was still _living_—he couldn't have been too late—

Sniper's hysterical though muted cry of _"oh God,"_ went unnoticed by Scout, whose lower half had been submerged beneath the water. Sniper sat speechless as the young man's gargled moans ceased, more blood coughing its way up his throat. He watched as he became overpowered with convulsions, his coughs and wheezes having morphed into violent sputters, blood landing on Scout's front as well as Sniper's cheek.

Sniper's breath shook as his eyes darted with an overwhelming anxiety from his heavily bruised friend to the walls of the sewer, fresh blood streaking in coats so heavy that it became instantly apparent Scout had lost more blood than Sniper had initially presumed.

Sniper curled the hand he had pressed against the young man's cheek, thankful to feel a vital warmth in his flesh. He removed the headset delicately, pulling Scout against him as one of the points of trauma reveals itself, a trickle of blood sliding along his profile.

Without thinking Sniper grunted as his knees nearly gave way under Scout's build settling in his arms, and his breathing quickened as he considered which path to take, either way the risk of conflict just as eminent no matter which way he picked.

The steps had proven to be a challenge, as did rushing through BLU's base as a RED, but the BLU push in his own base had thus dragged the battle into it as well, leaving BLU's battlements an ideal deserted for Sniper to sneak along.

He was thankful he went by ultimately unnoticed, and as Sniper glanced at the American in his arms, he suddenly _knew_ that there was nothing for him to do but get him to his resupply ward immediately. It was his top concern to dress the wounds and get him out of battle, wait by his side until Heinrich came (as much as he wanted to stay by him completely, he had no interest in provoking BLU's notoriously maniacal medic).

He didn't even know Scout's _name_, even after a year of friendship; it was unlawful to ask, and it certainly wasn't something to flaunt, being on first name terms with the one you were meant to murder. Even still, he'd let his own enemy near him in a way no one had managed before, with bright blue eyes Sniper'd never seen without an enthusiastic sheen about them, and the easy laugh, the eager voice, the wide, grinning smile—the smile that made you think you were special...

And it was fear of never seeing that smile again that caused the stride in the man's nimble run to exceed its natural capacity.

He'd picked the resupply ward in the basement for good measure. Keeping the boy's chin up, he disinfected and treated the wounds, whispering frantically to Scout in his grip that he'd be alright, that they'd be laughing together again in no time, the unmistakable choke of tears scratching at the pathetic attempt at evenness his tone tried with all urgency to uphold.

"Scout—Scout," Sniper whispers, patting his cheek and yielding a groan from the concussed young man, pulling the wet, filthy shirt from his frame, the fabric slipping off him with the ease of liquid silver over glass. Cleaning the gashes along his temple, his trembling fingers loose against the rag he uses, it takes the Australian a few seconds to recognise the sound of his own voice formulating desperate mumbles into the somewhat unconscious young man's ear.

"Promise me you'll be alright—that you'll find me as soon as you can—promise me you'll be alright, y'mongrel!" Sniper had lifted Scout's head gently so his gaze met his, his face hardly any noticeable distance from the one he addresses. Sure, Scout swayed and Sniper was _praying_ at this point the dullness in Scout's eyes wasn't from any sort of ethereal departure from this world. But Sniper sobbed—he actually _sobbed_ as Scout's eyes closed tiredly, the time between Scout's dazed blinks becoming longer and longer—

"I won't let anythin' happen t'you—" he swears, lifting his head up again, cradling his cheeks gently in his hands.

"_Scout_! Don't close your eyes like that, you're scarin' me—!" he hisses, though he turns around sharply as the steel door lifts open in a swift moment, and all Sniper can do as the startled Heinrich stands above their frames is gasp, and with one look at Scout his expression becomes _ferocious_, beast like in its anger, the man producing his saw and lunging for the lanky Australian, the one he instantly assumes is responsible for his injured comrade—

"He's dyin'!" Sniper shouts with urgency at the towering German, who stops in his tracks to observe the irate enemy Sniper who holds BLU's Scout, his own unconscious colleague. Medic's brow shows no sign of letting up from its tense furrow inward, though, as his eyes scan across the Australian's figure to see the nurturing embrace in which the RED Sniper holds the young man, assuring him he'll survive this, Medic is certain he can skip defensive pretenses and lunge straight into the healing process the critically wounded Scout required.

"Don't just stand there, you bloody fucker!" Sniper snarls, and Heinrich's eyebrows raise at the fierceness in this man's voice, Heinrich wondering just _why_ the Hell this enemy Sniper was so worried about the fate of Scout's life—

"HE'S DYIN', HERE! Do I have to say it again?!"

Heinrich opens his mouth to address the man, though he decides otherwise as he sees the stony glare, conveying the ever present truth that now was not the time for questions if they wanted Scout alive.

"You hear me, Scout?!" Sniper whispers into his ear, Heinrich looking over his shoulder at the two while frantically rummaging about for the supplies he'll need for the procedure.

"I promise you'll be alright, love—I promise—"

And Heinrich's heart skips a beat as the young man coughs, a wet and laborious heave escaping his lips as he gasps for air.

"You must go," Heinrich croaks, unable to determine just how it would be appropriate to address the distraught man who sits by Scout's side. "It is not safe for you to be seen here!"

Sniper reluctantly lets the hand along his cheek go, and with one final look, he leaves the ward swiftly without another word.

Sniper had made it alive into his own base, his heart pounding and his whole front covered in blood and his mind searing with flashes of Scout in all his agony.

They won the match shortly after, but it didn't matter, the mission wasn't worth a shit for Sniper, and he could hardly stomach dinner that evening, the others watching him curiously as the arguably most quiet member of the team suddenly tore from the table and out of the base without uttering a word on his intentions.

He didn't care if he had to wait all night by this tree, he was prepared to watch the base for a sign of Scout for all eternity if he had to.

Of course Sniper checks his watch again, shifting against the bark and silently panicking. Scout, as he'd seen firsthand, had suffered greatly earlier that day, to expect that the boy would already be fit to hop out of bed would be a miracle...And yet, Sniper wondered, did his absence mean his own team's Scout had really...?

"...find it a terrible idea, Scout..."

"Don't worry 'bout it doc, I just want some fresh air for real..."

Sniper stops himself from sighing aloud, crouching soundlessly behind the large tree's branches, despite the base of the other faction being a decent distance away in itself.

"To showcase yourself in such a condition is both foolish and puzzling, dear Scout, but if you truly zink you vill be okay—"

"You're worryin' again, Doc—'s probably why you got all those grey hairs!" Scout jokes in an attempt to rile up the stiff German, who indeed straightens haughtily at Scout's quip, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses.

"I _have_ no grey hairs, Junge—It is all a trick of ze sunlight! Now, you are only allowed to valk ze perameters of ze base! Do not do anyzing strenuous, and do not stray toward ze _RED_ sector or any of its _inhabitants_, do I make myself clea—?!" Heinrich warns in a high pitched hysteria, and he can tell by the guilt in Scout's eyes that the American had caught onto the implication of "RED Sniper" quite easily.

"Docta, docta," Scout sighing all he can do to voice his discontent, a glaringly weak and weary tone and volume settling into his voice. His arm is wrapped in a sling, as Sniper can see, the other bandaged so heavily that is beyond obvious why the young man chooses to move it so gingerly.

"Do not dirty up your bandages—!"

"Naw, I think I'ma go find a real nice mud puddle to roll around in—yeah, that sounds pretty good!"

"Ach, Junge—see to it you are back inside before it gets dark!"

"Alright, _Doc_, I heard ya!"

Scout waits until Heinrich approves it all with a final nod, the iron door bolting and echoing across the width of the silent forts lying opposite each other.

Sniper watches quietly as the runner looks carefully about before approaching RED territory, albeit with a highly contemplative, light step (though rather it was because of physical limitations or an actual acknowledgment of caution, Sniper is unsure).

"Oi! Scout!" Sniper hisses, doing hardly a good job to mask the urgency in his whisper, Scout making a move to _dash_ toward him, the idiot—the reminder of his injuries however advising him otherwise.

Sniper makes his way to him, and as he takes one look at Scout he finds himself less able to restrain himself from _lunging_ at him, though Scout expresses a similar impulse as he allows himself to fall (albeit carefully) against the man's chest, Sniper not waiting another second to snake his arms around the bandaged frame, and he can feel Scout's shuddering sigh against his neck, and the curl of fingertips settling into the hair left unexposed by his hat...

"Come sit down," Sniper mumbles after a few moments, assisting him in limping his way over toward the tree, patting a gentle patch of grass so as to soften it for him.

"Hey, thanks—Sorry I took so long..." Scout can't help hut spread his lips in a dopey beam at his dull comment.

"Sorry?! _Sorry_?! After all you've been through today, 'nd you're apologisin' for takin' too _long_ in intensive care?!" Sniper scoffs, Scout turning red as it hits him just how stupid 'sorry' must've sounded.

"You haven't done nothin' wrong, 's my fault for not findin' ya sooner,"

"Nah, don't—don't say that...!"

"Why in the bloody Hell did you think it would be a good idea to run the sewers alone without ammo or back up?! They're dirty and dark and're always heavily guarded, if I hadn't heard your moanin' I wouldn'ta known t'look there for ya—!"

"I know—I didn't think it through—"

"'Nd it almost cost you your life, you git! Don't ever do anythin' so reckless like that again! I was horrified, Scout, I saw you lyin' there'n I was so afraid you wouldn't make it," Sniper grumbles affectionately, his expression softening as he can only take in the magnitude of bruises Scout acquired in his duel with the other.

"Takes more than that to keep _me_ down, wombat," Scout attempts to joke, but his soft smile seems limited beyond the reality of things, like his upturned lips are the only part of him that actually believe such a claim...

"It's a wonder you remembered to come find me out here, you were in a state, you were..."

"Nah, I remembered—it's the _only_ thing I remember..."

"Oh, love, look at you..." Sniper sighs, bringing his gloved hand to rest against the Scout's chin, studying the bandages that wrap along his forehead, arms and shoulders. "Thank God you're alright..." Sniper sighs with a sincere relief, Scout smiling weakly at his friend's concern.

"About as alright as I'm gonna get..."

"It's a miracle you can walk! Or talk or—or _move_, or—!"

"I know, right?! Apparently the Doc used some sorta experimental radiation on me—he said he'd never tried the technique before but that he was reservin' it for emergencies—somethin' about the rays speedin' the healin' process—he said he was worried it would go wrong, but I didn't feel a thing 'cept heat—but maybe it was just 'cause I was too blacked out t'notice for real—either way, even after all the healin' I'm still sore, and it's a bitch t'move—but I wasn't expectin' all this sympathy from ya, wombat..." he chuckles tiredly, Sniper helping him shift carefully upon the grass, still shaded under the grace of the tree.

"Heh...ain't nothin' up there—guess I really did take 'em all..." he laughs again, Sniper's heart nearly breaking as the boy grimaces, bringing his bandaged hand to his forehead, the gentle laughter doing a number on the relentless throb that overpowers him as is.

"You're a bloody mess, Scout, you sure you don't jus' wanna go lie down—?"

"Nah, Snipes—I _wanna_ be out here with ya, it's 'cus of you I'm even still breathin', here," Scout mumbles, and Sniper can see for the first time in his whole year of interacting with him, a sheen of serious realisation coat the normally lively confident glint of his eyes.

"Don't even say it, boyo, I don't need your thanks..." Sniper holds up a hand, Scout closing his mouth softly as Sniper puts a stop to the gratitude he was to utter.

"...your Scout's somethin' else..." he attempts to joke. "Got me good—hardly got a hit in..."

"Nah, our Scout's head was bleedin' a bit—you definitely did a numbah on 'im; boy went to bed dazed as all get up, could hardly walk 'imself, really..." Sniper sighs, letting his ungloved hand still trail along Scout's cheek...

"Still, I'd rather neither of you'd been hurt," Sniper mumbles, the skin pressed underneath the older man's palm prickling with what Scout hopes is anything but a fuckin' _blush_...

"You saved me out there—I don't think you realise that," Scout chokes, his eyes directed at the grassy hill that unfurls beneath them, an orange glare casting off the blades as night approaches.

"I dunno where the Hell your ass came from, or how the fuck you knew, but—shit, what you did today..."

"_Scout_—"

"I'll never forget it..."

"I'm just glad you're not worse off, kiddo—you nearly had me in tears when I ran you up to your supply room..."

"Didn't know ya cared that much," Scout grins, his eyes shutting gently from a reactionary reflex to the pain stretching his cheeks induces.

"'Course I do! I may be heartless, but I'll make an exception for ya," he chuckles

"Oh, this ain't even all the bandages—" Scout nods toward his stomach, giving Sniper a look as if to say, "Check it out,"

The Australian lets his fingers curl around the ends of the boy's standard cotton blue shirt (a fresh clean one, obviously), lifting gently, exposing a serious set of gauze wrapped meticulously around his hips and torso.

"Bruised ribs—though 'cause o' you, 's all it was," Scout explains solemnly, his voice trailing as he finds himself locked in a stare with the older marksman all too poweful for him to handle at the moment...

"Oi, give some credit t'your doc, now—"

"You risked your ass out there for me," Scout ignores Sniper's gentle attempt at humour, his eyes glassy with that same rare instance of seriousness Sniper never really _could_ get used to...

"—not just by throwin' yourself into battle to get me, but—ya know, bein' on the otha team runnin' through our base 'n' shit..."

Sniper sighs, the absurdity of it all catching up with him too.

"Heinrich was askin' me all these questions when I woke up—gave me a fuckin' _headache_—he said he came in'n you were in the ward with me—he was confused as Hell, I'll tell you that much," Scout explains, Sniper's stomach dropping at the horrid realisation that now Heinrich knew about their friendship—or worse, more than likely blamed his condition on him.

"Don't worry, Slugger, he doesn't know we're friends, 'n I told him I fell and caught the blast of a stray rocket—I didn't wanna start shit by mentionin' your Scout—I'll deal with him on my _own_—I told the Doc you _felt bad_—that you saw what happened with the rocket that you weren't just gonna let me suffer..."

"You really think he's gonna buy it?!" Sniper asks incredulously, Scout shrugging dully.

"Prolly not, but it shut him up for now—I think he'll try to keep askin' me shit when I get better, he was confused why you helped me in the first place more than anything. I dunno—'s gonna sound kinda girly, but I think he thought it was fuckin'_sweet_," Scout grimaces, Sniper muttering a soft "hmm" in response, his grin widening at the contempt in Scout's voice.

"Now they think you're a fuckin' softy—"

"Let'em think what the want 'bout me; 's no way I would let anythin' happen t'you—no matter what,"

"For real? Aw man—"

"You mean a lot to me, Scout," Sniper clasps a caring but conscious hand on the unwrapped shoulder, and he can almost feel the boy beneath his gesture melt into the very earth...

"No one's ever said that before," Scout grins, his gaze veered again in the diameter of the terrain.

"You know how fuckin' weird it is to know people only care about you as far you need to be cared for for war's sake?! Ma and my brothers woulda done it—I woulda done it for them too, no fuckin' doubt—but here's this fuckin' _Sniper_ on the otha team, my only friend'n lookin' out for me'n savin' me like I actually matter—and I don't even know your name!" Scout can no longer hide his laughter as he turns to face the quiet listener, Scout's eyes lit up with a cynical humour, an amusing sense of disbelief.

"I don't even know your fuckin' name..." he repeats, shaking his head before boring his eyes into the ground, his fingers drilling a few blades of grass from their roots.

"...Jack," the older man whispers, the usual gruff sense of mild irritation absent from the heartfelt mumble.

"Jack?" Scout repeats, eyes wide, and Sniper can almost _see_ him commit a name to the unidentified memories he'd built up with him during his first year of combat.

"Jack..." he repeats, nodding with a serious resolve as if confirming everything in the world. "Yeah..."

Sniper smiles, shifting and crossing his legs carefully, the tingling numbness that occurs when one sits still for too long dissipating instantly.

"You look a bit like a..._Jerry_—"

"Ugh—_naw_—!"

"Michael—?"

"Hell no, slugger—!"

"What about Christopher—?"

"That's my brotha's name—you ain't never gonna guess it, it's Lawrence—kinda a dumb name, huh?!" Scout smiles weakly, Sniper shaking his head no before stripping himself of the glasses and setting them gently against the earth.

"No, it's not stupid—maybe a bit too _bougie_ for a little git like you—"

"Hey, you don't look like no _Jack_—!"

"Don't have to look like one to be one, _Lawrence_,"

"See that's why I shoulda never told ya—now you're gonna be usin' it against me!"

"We already got enough goin' against us, love," Sniper sighs, Scout nodding in agreement before a gentle rush of silence influences them. Sniper watches the exterior of the BLU base, careful to make sure their spot of seclusion is as secluded as they think. Sniper is so caught up in his act of vigilance, in fact, that he doesn't even see the younger boy's unwavering stare, his breath caught in his throat as he chokes harshly on words he neither understands nor knows how to say.

And yet Scout lets the tip of his tongue slide over his lips, the only unblemished part of what he feels may as well be the battered remains of weary flesh. He parts them softly, sighing rigidly before this act catches the Aussie's attention.

"'Samatta, boyo? Somethin' on your mind?" Sniper smiles, Scout scrunching his brow before shaking his head meekly.

"You don't really expect me to believe ya, d'you posey?" Sniper asks gently, a calming laugh slipping past his easy smile.

"It's stupid—forget about it,"

"Go 'head and ask, love, you've already got me listenin'..."

"You got a lady back in the lucky country?" Scout asks quickly, Sniper smirking, his eyes rooted straight ahead. Scout's' eyes are wide as he awaits his friend's answer, the older man chuckling darkly before preparing his response.

"I'ven't had a _lady_ in fifteen years, love; when you get so caught up all alone in the wilderness, you find you don't have too much free time to squander away on skirt chasin' and knee pinchin'—or even, you find you have a lack of desire to _find_ the time," Sniper explains to the wide eyed young man whose smile spreads gently across his cheeks. "Why?"

"Y'know—just wonderin' if—_ya know_—if there was a girl back at home you woulda done that for, besides, y'know, like, family..."

Sniper laughs again.

"So what did you do with this _lady_?! Y'all hunt kangaroos togetha—?!"

"I've told you a thousand times I don't kill kangaroos, we've got an _assortment_ of wildlife down under, y'know," Snipe grins, Scout nodding for him to continue.

"I was what—eighteen?! We'd been friends a while—finally worked up the courage to tell 'er how I felt—she told me she liked me too, so we dated a year. Spent the summer with the van, her and me—the Outback was ours, it was amazin'—found out that Fall that when I wasn't cartin' the little princess around, she was buggerin' a good mate o' mine—that'll put a damper on a young bloke's heart—I was absolutely ridiculous for the girl too, it was right pathetic. I couldn't stick around, she was everywhere'n so ingrained in my circle o'friends, so I set out with the van on my own; just a nice week's getaway to clear my thoughts and whatnot—'course the seclusion and bush, I'd really begun to enjoy..."

"Sorry, Snipes..."

"Ah, who cares, it's been nearly twenty years! 'S not like I miss 'er or anythin'; besides, if it hadn't happened, I never woulda started huntin' game, or enlisted as a mercenary, and it sure as Hell don't take a genius to figure out I wouldn't be sittin' here with ya if I hadn't enlisted,"

"Yeah, I guess you're right..." Scout's brow furrows, his stomach rumbling in a queasy pattern as he wonders in silence whether or not Sniper found it to be a nice trade off—Caught in an eternal war, with memories of a shitfest of an ex girlfriend as a romantic legacy just to sit here by his side...

"Well what 'bout you, love?" Sniper asks with an enthusiastic curiosity, Scout beaming so his youthful blue eyes shine with pride.

"You kiddin'?! _All_ the girls back in Boston want some o' this—!"

"Hm—well in that case I take it that's code for 'no'?" Sniper cheekily asks, his younger friend scowling and turning a flushed red at the man's smokey laughter.

"You're just talkin' shit—I could totally have a girl if I wanted one!"

"Then why don't ya?"

"I dunno," Scout shrugs. "Prolly 'cause there ain't none to choose from out here in fuckin' _2fort_..."

"True, true..." Sniper chuckles, and he swears he can hear Scout's mind whirring with thoughts, radiating into the silent air.

"Plus, I dunno—I was never really interested in 'em for real," Scout's hollow voice admits without provocation, and his throat goes dry as he shifts to better ease the pressure upon his injuries.

"I mean—not to sound creepy or nothin', but I always felt like I only liked girls 'cause I was supposed to, y'know what I mean?!"

"Hmm," Sniper nods for him to keep talking.

"Whateva—you prolly don't even care for real..."

"'Course I do, love, otherwise I wouldn't be sittin' here listenin' to ya!" Sniper grins. "Though you're lookin' a bit stiff, I doubt sittin' out here is helpin' ya much—maybe we should call it a day—"

"Nah, wait," Scout lifts a bandaged hand and rests it gently against Sniper's forearm, hinting that he shouldn't move. "I mean—I just wanted to ask—like, it's _normal_, right...?"

"Is _what_ normal, love?"

"I dunno—just—have you ever felt like you could almost kiss another dude?" Scout asks, Sniper easily able to catch onto the hastened, pathetic attempt at nonchalance in his best friend's voice.

Sighing however, the older man wonders just _where_ and _what_ the Hell to begin with, as, in all honesty, he's unsure what it is Scout wants him to say, the truth being 'yeah', that Sniper had long since come to terms with his own sexuality and his feelings regarding _'other dudes'_ and _kissing_ them—but were these words right for a boy of Scout's temperament who obviously still struggles with his own...?

"Look, I'm just gonna go ahead and say this," Scout's voice quivers a little, his eyes focused intently on the hands folded neatly in his lap.

"You don't have to say nothin' you're not comfortable with—"

"I ain't uncomfortable about it, and I don't give a shit what you'll think about me when I say it!" Scout barks, Sniper's eyes widening as he is takenaback by his friend's sudden ferociousness.

"What's on yo' mind, Scoo'er—?!"

"Nah, fuck it—"

"I'm not gonna bugga it, love, it's obvious you're not gonna shut up about it 'til you spit it out!"

"Whatever, man..."

"Scout, just say it; you've already dug yourself into sayin' whatever it is, and it's best you just get it out—"

"Just forget it, okay?!" Scout pleads, Sniper's lips turned down softly as he nods from finality. "'s not important f'real..."

"Well alright," Sniper mumbles tiredly, rubbing a caring hand along the width of his back. "C'mon, love—you look right beat, y'do," he attempts at a lighthearted grin, bringing Scout gently to his feet. "Go get some sleep—you need the rest..."

"You don't have to walk me back," Sniper could swear Scout hadn't spoken at all, his voice is so inaudible.

"Don't be silly, Scout, you wouldn't make it 'cross the bridge with that limpin' of yours," Sniper scolds gruffly as he supports his friend's stride back to his own base.

"Take care o' yourself, mongrel," Sniper warns in all seriousness, careful of his injuries before taking Scout into a light but affectionate hug.

"Don't go scrappin' around, or fallin' about—do everything your Doc wants you to—"

Scout nods in understanding, and suddenly, as he stands under the protective hands of the older man, the hands that keep his stature right and prevent his own frame from collapsing within itself, a warmth Scout finds harder shake away creeps and wretches its way through his body with every second he allows his eyes to stay rooted to Sniper's.

"Will I see you again?" Scout's eyes seem locked with a deadpan gaze, though the quivering worry in his whisper is nothing Sniper ignores.

"'Course, Scout—don't be ridiculous," Sniper chuckles, his smile relaxing as he senses the reluctance of release in Scout's grip, his headstrong resistance in letting him go.

"Now go lay down before the Doc comes lookin' for ya," Sniper pats his cheek softly, Scout nodding into the gesture. "Don't tell'im you were with me—try to convince'im he imagined me in the ward this afternoon," he grumbles, Scout laughing weightlessly.

"And don't fall out of bed!"

Scout finally slips away, tossing the man he eyes a half hearted smile as makes his way toward the steel blue walls in the distance, though Sniper will never know that Scout's thoughts kept him from a beloved sleep, swirling about and refusing to dissipate on his behalf...


	5. Pervasiveness Fulfilled

"I'm bein' ridiculous; I'm afraid of a damn _door_."

Scout's aggravation with himself does nothing to change the tenseness that coils along his strained arm, his fist still extended with his knuckles pressed gently against the steel entrance to the camper van.

He sighs heavily, looking at his feet and nodding determinedly at them, drilling the toe of his black cleat into the loosened earth upon which he stands. With a spastic whip around the boy surveys the location, grateful that it all remains as secluded as it was when he'd snuck out of his own base to begin with.

The exteriors of the bases are still and unmoving in their considerable distance from the van before which Scout finds himself, Scout letting the edges of his knuckles rap firmly against it's surface, instantly pocketing his fists and standing in anxious anticipation.

He was looking forward to seeing the Australian, after all—a whole week'd gone by in which Scout had been denied the company of his best friend, Heinrich restricting him to the confines of the wirey bed in the infirmary. True, the week was necessary for Scout's recovery, the young man now sporting only a few fading bruises along his stomach, the only visual reminders he'd earned from the events of last week.

The soreness had faded to dull twinges that only reared themselves when he strained himself too hard whilst trying to run as fast as his job called for. But now that he can move at _all_ without the overbearing throbbing emanating from every muscle within him, it would only make sense he spent his first free moment with the very man responsible for his second chance in the first place.

"C'mon, wombat!" Scout knocks again, his right leg jittering from impatience, Scout sucking on his lower lip. "C'mon man, open up..." Scout mumbles as he tucks his now unslung arms to his chest, releasing a soft puff of breath as he takes yet another look around to ensure his seclusion.

But he gasps slightly as the lanky man swings the door open, Sniper's features brightening from surprise.

"Oi, Scout!" Sniper beams down at the brunette, whose goofy smile widens with each second their gaze remains connected. "C'mon in, love, haven't seen ya all week!" Sniper motions for him to step inside the camper, Scout obeying and hoisting himself up, closing the door behind him.

"Sorry your first time in here's when it's so messy—if I'd known I'd be havin' company I woulda bothered to tidy up a bit," Sniper chuckles, but Scout shakes his head, casting the man a charming smile.

"Nah, it's fine, wombat, really," Scout assures him. The van, though shady due to the lack of open blinds, was just as he imagined it to be. Sniper may have been a hunter of sorts, but he was certainly far from filthy.

As far as he could tell, there was no dirt or grime, everything being cleaned, and sanitised. The kitchenette in the front seems spotless, and the camper itself dusted and swept. Scout sniffs a little, the scent of heavy incense scratching at his nostrils, though Scout fails to see a stick of it actually burning. A faint trace of cigarettes can also be found if one tunes their nose in with just the right sensitivity, but it's faded, as if Sniper hadn't smoked within the van itself in quite a while.

A slight inconsistency of the floor against his sole draws his gaze downward to the floor, bullets of his sniper rifle littered about in strangely innocent clusters. Scout smiles smally before bringing his face upward and taking in the sights of the Australian in full capacity, whose towering figure straightens up the van in an abashed haste.

Scout further brings his eyes to wander to the man's sleeping quarters near the back, consisting of a down mattress with a variety of unmade blankets strewn about it. He had his civilian clothes as well as his red uniform folded nicely in a small drawer compacted into the tiny "bedroom", a small lamp resting upon its surface.

"Go 'head, love, take a seat," Sniper motions to his mattress, Scout lowering himself along the edge of it.

"Don't get visitors in the bush,'s why there's no place for ya t'sit," Sniper chuckles, Scout returning the man's humour with a kindly smile. "Promise I'll have somethin' more comfortable rigged up for ya next time—y'want somethin' to drink?"

"Nah, nah, I'm fine," Scout smiles, his voice gentle as he rests his wrists upon his knees.

"Lemmie at least get some blinds open, 's just I like the dark—don't need people lookin' in'n snoopin' about tryin' to figure me out,"

With just a few flicks of his wrist the van seems shades brighter, the natural lighting of the sun gracing the interior of the bedroom, small flakes of dust swinging in the path of the revealing rays.

Sniper releases a calming sigh before sitting himself next to his guest, casting the young man a gentle smile over his glasses.

"You've really healed nicely," Sniper beams, bringing a friendly arm to wrap around Scout's shoulder.

"This is the first time Heinrich's let me outta bed in almost eight days!" Scout scoffs, his shoulder tingling as Sniper rubs his thumb along it absentmindedly.

"You needed the down time if you ever wanted to move again, gremlin—missed seein'n spendin' time with ya, but's crazy how quick he got you patched up!"

"Yeah, whatever—was borin' as Hell, and you all were constantly battlin' so I didn't have no visitors,"

"Sorry, love—if breaching your base wouldn't start a conflict I woulda been there for ya," Sniper grins, sighing however seconds later.

"Ha ha, I thought you didn't like the company, Snipes!"

"Gah," Sniper scoffs, waving a hand of dismissal.

"Reminds me, your Scout say anythin' about the—yeah..."

"Nah, he was outta bed after a couple days—didn't seem like it was anythin' major for'im, like it was just another fight..."

"Yeah, it almost fuckin' _killed_ me..."

Sniper grumbles, their embrace growing tighter as he pulls Scout closer against him.

"Don't worry 'bout it, you're breathin', aren't ya?" Sniper smiles, Scout shrugging half heartedly and glaring at his feet.

"Y'alright? You're right sulkin' over there,"

"Yeah, I'm alright—just thinkin'," Scout's heavy frown lightens slightly however, and Sniper can see the pressure of words forming against his lips.

"You know, how you saved me,"

"I thought I told you t'quit mentionin' it," Sniper chuckles, Scout smirking at the man's slight scowl. "'S not like you to get all quiet'n starry eyed."

"I know," Scout growls as if it irked him too. "But I was sittin' in that bed, and I had a _lot_ of fuckin' time to think, you know? 'bout everything—home, Ma, my brothers, and what it is I'm really fightin' for,"

"Yeah, seclusion gets your mind goin',"

"I'm damn good at what I do, so why—you know..."

"Rushin' into dark sewers with no ammunition isn't exactly what I'd call a class A plan, Scout—doesn't matter how _good_ you are,"

"Yeah, but I figured no one else would be in there, ya know?"

"I told ya before, you always have to assume the enemy is waitin' behind every corner, fully loaded'n ready to react—seems like somethin' any Scout worth his salt would keep in mind..."

"_No_, I mean I thought it would be safer down there than runnin' across the battlements with nothin' but a fuckin' _bat_..."

"It's over, Scout—I understand you're gonna be hung up on it a bit, but be glad you're still breathin'n learn from it," Sniper explains calmly, Scout nodding tiredly. "Don't let it get to ya—Your spy has gotten pretty close to doin' me in a numbah of times, that _bastard_—"

"You safe up there? I mean, scoped in'n shit? What if someone sneaks up behind you?"

"They gotta find me first, love—often times I'm too hard to spot 'til it's too late for 'em,"

"But Spies—"

"Yeah, they find ya—gotten real close to killin' me, 'n they like to leave behind little reminders," Sniper points to a small gash along his cheek.

"That's how you got that thing—?"

"But you have to keep your head out there, always trust your gut—and don't go lookin' for revenge—"

"You serious—?!"

"Don't be _reckless_, Scout,"

"You expect me to take a beating from that asshole and not wanna knock the fucker out—?!"

"You're gonna charge at the git angry'n throwin' whatever you got at'im—'s what landed you in the infirmary in the first place—don't plot'n don't dwell on him, or you'll forget about the others after ya,"

"Whatever..."

"Just sayin', Scout—I'm lookin' out for ya, 's all..."

"Right..." Scout sighs, his stomach clenching at the embarrassment of how easily readable he must've been—he'd only spent the whole week replaying the same visions of him caving the RED Scout's skull in, his BLU counterpart laughing maniacally above him while Sniper stood by his side, going on about how good of a beating he gave him and how he never liked the bugger anyway—though this was where the fantasy had switched from a glorious day dream to a full fledged delusion.

Of course it didn't stop there, either, the way Sniper would chuckle darkly before bringing the boy into a deep kiss, Scout's blood soaked hands pressed against his cheeks, staining them with the iron of his comrade*******...

"Y'alright, Scout?" Sniper asks calmly, Scout nodding his head both to confirm his statement and shake away such violent perversions.

"But—I really gotta tell you somethin', Snipes—'s been botherin' me all week," Scout scratches behind his neck, sure to avoid the man's eye.

"Y'know how I asked if you got, y'know, a lady?"

"Yeah,"

"Well, 'cause—you wouldn't happen to have, you know, some dude you're doin' or nothin', right?"

"No," Sniper raises an eyebrow, chuckling lightly. "'s with your obsession with my sex life?"

"I'm not _obsessed_, I just—well, you know—I wanted to make sure you weren't seein' nobody—"

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind me spendin' time with ya, if that's where you're gettin' at—"

"Nah, like—you ever wanted to kiss another guy?"

"Well..." Sniper begins hesitantly, casting his eyes to the side before peering back at Scout.

"Yeah. I—I have," he admits cautiously, awaiting Scout's upturned scowl of disgust.

"Have you?" Scout asks with sudden quiet enthusiasm, Sniper clearing his throat before nodding.

"How is it...?" Scout shifts, leaning closer toward the older man as if afraid he'd miss a word.

"You ever kissed a dame before?"

"Well, yeah—"

"You like it?"

"Yeah—"

"Then there ya go," Sniper smiles smally, Scout raising an eyebrow.

"What the Hell's that supposed to mean—?!"

"If ya like who you're kissin', 's gonna be nice whether they got a cock or not," he chuckles. "Why? Got a bloke you've got an achin' for?" Sniper asks slyly, Scout freezing with embarrassment as he looks Sniper up and down, the man before him so blissfully unaware of the dirty thoughts centered around him Scout had relied on to get him through his secluded week.

"I think that little smile o'yours means yes, mate," Sniper beams, Scout shaking his head but smiling meekly.

"Oi, isn't that sweet, the litle bugger's in love—don't have nothin' smart ass to say 'bout that, d'you?" he laughs, Scout opening his mouth to speak.

"Forget it, man—would you still kiss a dude? Like, now?"

"Depends on if I like'im or not,"

"Because, y'know—"

"Why're you so into it all of a sudden? Don't tell me you got a thing for our Scout—would just be wrong—"

"Nah, _fuck_ that bastard—I just—"

"Someone's got you all bothered,"

"I think I might wanna kiss you, okay?!" Scout barks, his expression mingled with unchanneled frustration. "There, I said it—!"

"Well, I guess I earned one savin' ya—!"

"You know what I mean, wombat!" Scout hisses, his expression tense as he awaits the Australian's response. A deep silence stands between them, Sniper shaking his head before looking sheepishly to the side.

"Oh Lord, _Scout_..."

"Yeah, so what?!" Scout snaps, Sniper pinching the bridge of his nose as if begging it for mercy.

"And if you got a problem with that—!"

"No, of course not!" Sniper smiles soothingly, wrapping a carefully placed arm around his shoulder.

"Alright', 'cause—...y'know..." Scout whispers, and Sniper watches his friend cautiously, careful not to say or do anything to rile him up in this particular moment.

"There's no need t'be so flustered; don't need you workin' yourself up, now..."

Scout says nothing, leaving Sniper alone with these wildly racing thoughts, his heart beating with presence as it settles that the boy he holds had, in his own way, confessed to actually being attracted to him.

"'S nothin' to be ashamed of, boyo," Sniper soothes the somewhat shocked Scout, who sits still with a dull expression on his face...

"Really, don't think no less of ya 't'all, love...but, I'm afraid I'm gonna have ta break your little heart," Sniper mumbles, Scout's glare still fixed determinedly on the grass, Sniper sighing as he sees the young man tense up with disappointment.

"Yeah..."

The two don't say anything for a bit, nor do they move from their positions. Sniper still keeps a secure arm around his friend, Scout sitting rigid and unmoving, disgusted with his own pathetic, girlish reaction to rejection, finding it impossible to brush away the stifling sense of hurt with some smart ass comment or gesture.

Sniper instead pulls him closer, eyeing Scout caringly, though Scout's eyes still shine, pointed straight ahead.

"'S nothin' personal, love, I just don't think..."

But his voice falters as he feels the frame of the runner submit to the wracks that are followed by the unmistakable sniff that can only mean...

"Don't go cryin' on me," Sniper pleads quietly as he turns the boy to face him, and Sniper _never_ would've guessed he would ever sit with Scout crying silently in his arms, lovestruck and beaten beyond anything his self assurance couldn't remedy.

"Scout..." Sniper sighs as Scout sniffs, his lips twisted as he gives a slight hiccup, wiping his eyes the best he can while still concealing his tears in the first place.

"_WHAT IN THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU_—?!"

"Scout, don't shout, love, you'll only hurt yourself further—"

"_HOW CAN YOU JUST BECOME MY BEST FRIEND AND SAVE MY FUCKIN' LIFE, AND THEN JUST EXPECT ME NOT TO—TO—?!_"

"Scout, _really_—!"

"SERIOUSLY, AFTER ALL WE'VE BEEN THROUGH!"

"Scout, keep your voice down before someone—!"

"Fuck you, wombat!" Scout shouts, his face miraculously dry save a few small streaks left behind from a trail of escaped tears. "Over here fuckin' savin' me and callin' me _'love'_ and—!" Scout roars, hoisting himself up delicately from the the bed.

"It's not my fault you've fallen for me like a bloody schoolgirl! Just 'cos you got all rosy over me, that doesn't mean you can sit here and blame me for your insecurity over your own sexuality!" Sniper growls, the runner falling silent as he balls his fists and steels his jaw, his eyes narrowed.

"Tough love, posie, 's what you get, fallin' in love with your enemy in the middle of a war!" Sniper snaps, Scout scoffing before setting his eyes in a soft glare once more.

"WHO THE FUCK SAID I WAS IN LOVE WITH YOU?!"

"You pretty much did, 'bout two minutes ago; 's your memory _really_ that bad?! What if the Administrator finds out 'bout your feelings?! It's bad enough we're _friends_, and I'm not too keen on takin' it any further—"

"I never said _shit_ bout taking it further, do I look like a fuckin' _fag_ to you?!"

Sniper shakes his head softly.

"What is it you want from me, Scout?" Sniper asks in short sternness, the young man biting on his lip.

"I dunno, maybe just a fuckin' like—shit, I dunno, _you're_ the one over here holdin' me, fuckin' carin' in the first place! I don't see you holdin' _your_ Scout like this!" Scout retorts, his words jumbled and stumbling underneath themselves as he clenched his teeth, weighted by his staggering frustration.

"It's fuckin' _confusing_, man!" Scout whines, almost as if pleading that the older man finds it within him to shed a little bit of mercy on his plight. Sniper nods from understanding.

"Listen, it ain't your fault, and it ain't nothin' personal—stop fidgetin' 'n' _listen to me_ would ya?!—I haven't been this close to no one in fifteen _years_, gremlin; that it's your scrawny little arse that's grown on me is a bit of an _eye opener_—but first of all, I didn't mean to lead you on if that's what you're 'ccusin' me of—I don't and never wanted romance—second, I don't need it _now_, and _third_, it's all more than love notes and pecks on the hand and chocolates and roses—I don't even think' you're ready for a relationship yet—"

"_Excuse me_, you callin' me a fuckin' _kid_—?!"

"I'm just sayin' is all," Sniper winks, catching the pathetic fist aimed for his chest in the hand.

"I hate you," Scout whimpers, his friend chuckling sadly.

"I'd be more hurt if I didn't know you were in love with me, mate,"

"I'm not _in love_ with you! Were you this much of a dick to your lady too?!"

"Nah," Sniper grins, Scout shaking his head in disgust.

"How the fuck can you fuckin' _laugh_ about this shit?!"

"'S just who I am, gremlin, 's why you want nothin' to do with me—I'd be terrible for ya—I'm old, mentally _unstable_, as you can see—on the other bloody side of the war..."

"You ain't that much older than me," Scout hisses, Sniper shrugging before the young man swallows and turns to give him a determined stare.

"And I ain't no twelve year old girl, I can fuckin' handle myself—I don't need you tellin' me what's good for me and what ain't,"

"You honestly think you wanna kiss me?!" Sniper asks in a tone Scout can only identify as a perplexed combination of pity and surprise.

"You sure it's the whole package deal y'want?! Kissin' me'n holdin' hands, whatever else you got your lovestruck little brain cookin' up over there?"

Scout nods curtly.

"But I ain't _lovestruck_..."

"Good lord, mate..." Sniper rubs behind his neck, the determined younger man steeled in his resolve. "You're completely mental,"

"So what?!"

"And how the world d'you know it's what you want when you haven't even kissed a bloke before?!"

"It ain't all about that, wombat, maybe 's 'cause of a connection I feel for ya or—or _somethin'_—"

"God, you've been sittin' on _that_ ball of cheese for a while now, haven't you?!"

"Seriously, though," Scout blinks slowly, Sniper's eyebrows raised in resignation.

"Scout, I honestly don't think I'd be any good for you," Sniper sighs. again. "That look in your eyes, breaks my heart, _really_, but—"

Sniper remains motionless as he feels the lithe frame weave itself closer against him, a head resting calmly against his chest, one arm slung over his shoulder, another arm taking its time to snake itself around his body.

"What's so wrong about this?" Scout asks quietly, and Sniper's nervous system clenches under a temporary fit of seduction as he catches sight of the licentious gleam within Scout's slightly lidded eyes.

He groans hardly at all at the feel of Scout pressing his limber front so that he rests against the Australian's. Sniper's chest, Scout can sense, taughtens with caution—though Scout tempts him with an arousing presence the dark haired man finds himself unable to ignore.

Scout letting his groin rub against Sniper's thigh _does_ elicit a reactionary sigh the man can do nothing to hinder, his chest barely heaving as Scout cranes his neck with a slight tilt, his lips parting and sliding teasingly across his own and down the length of his neck.

Sniper says nothing, rubbing Scout's back affectionately, though his eyes narrow at the American's determined grin.

"I ain't lettin' up, wombat," Scout growls, Sniper sighing with a slight roll of his eyes as he lets a hand skate through Scout's hair and along his jaw line.

"Don't do this t'me," Sniper grumbles, Scout serious as no shift Sniper makes is able to shake the young man off him. "You have no idea what bein' with another man is like—"

"I thought you said it didn't matter as long as you wanted to kiss the person—!"

"I could probably kiss ya right now and you'd hate it! You'd go crawlin' right back to your dames—!"

"Alright then, do it!" Scout snaps, Sniper scowling before raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Sorry?"

"C'mon, you say I ain't got no clue 'cause I ain't never kissed a dude, so do it!" Scout glares viciously at the Australian, who sighs and adjusts himself.

"Do _what_—?!"

"Gimmie a _clue_," Scout rolls his eyes, falling silent as he feels Sniper's surprisingly _soft_ lips press against his cheek, and he nearly _shrivels_ as their eyes meet, Scout's unwavering as he dares not break the gaze Sniper commands.

Sniper removes his hat, placing it gently against the bed, dropping the tinted sunglasses next to it in a calm motion, time factorless and relaxed.

"Wanna play sleuth?" Sniper growls, hovering only inches above Scout, whose own eyes widen as he sees the feral countdown of his dwindling restraint in the man's grey ones, a burning sense of sincerity raging within them.

"'cause I got plenty of'em for ya," Sniper damn near _whispers_, and when his voice trails into silence, Scout's eyes swirl in an observant anxiety, like the victim of a serial killer who with his last moments takes in the tools of torture meant to execute his demise.

"Don't gimmie that face," he sneers, spreading the Scout's legs so he can slip between them easily.

"'S your own bloody fault your mouth's landed you underneath me in m'own _bed_..." he maunders, taking a finger and sliding in along Scout's jawline.

"Don't have nothin' t'say now, d'you?" Sniper snarls mockingly at the situationally _quiet_ Scout that lies underneath him.

The first feelings of lips catching his own stuns Scout, his muscles locking as his back is pinned harder against the down mattress under the weight of the man who leans forward the inches necessary to close the gap between them.

It doesn't take long for him to grow a little more comfortable, however, Scout's lips massaging Sniper's, his hands curling around Sniper's neck as he feels in such a short amount of time a pulsating rhythmn forming between them.

Hell, he even feels Sniper's hands trail underneath his shirt and along his hips, and jumps slightly at the sudden feel of tongue sliding between his teeth, Sniper showcasing what must be a rather tantalizing gift of his, honed through experience, the thought of said experience causing a subtle jealousy to well within him—

Scout pulls apart gently for air, breaking the connection only to bring their lips together again, pressing himself harder against the grip Sniper claims on him. The soft smacking is the only thing Scout can hear save the rustling of their clothing. It's kinda_hot_, actually...

But Sniper, who straddles the young man beneath him, lets a sigh escape from his slightly frowned lips, taking in the Scout whose eyes are shut from bliss, his body heaving in slight motions involuntarily from the pleasure Sniper causes him.

"'s it really what you want, love?" Sniper asks quietly, Scout nodding gently as he leans forward to kiss the man again, Sniper's gentle laughter stopping him from completing the act.

"The fuck's so funny?!" Scout snaps, unamused by Sniper's smirk.

"Wasn't expectin' to _excite_ ya, mongrel," he sneers, Scout turning an instant red and shifting to hide the hardness he had no idea was forming in his pants. "Hardly even did anythin',"

"Shut up..."

"Least I know you're not lyin' 'bout likin' it," he grins, taking the pack of cigarettes and matches off the drawer, lighting one and blowing smoke about the quiet room.

"You were gettin' into it too—!"

"I never said I don't wanna kiss ya, I said I don't want to bugger ya—"

"Why not?!"

"I'd ruin ya—I already _have_! With you sittin' here, cryin' your eyes out 'n' confused—'s not you at all! And I'm a grumpy old hunter who lives in a _van_—what could I possibly offer you?! I mean, I'm gettin' paid to kill ya for God's Sake—!"

Scout shrugs, Sniper closing his eyes, weary and at a loss for words.

"So then this ain't even a question about you wantin' me—"

"Scout, what if the Administrator finds out—?!"

"You just don't think it's _riiigggghhhhhhtttt_"

"Or our teams—?!"

"So what, we keep it hidden," Scout grins as if it were always so simple. "I'm sittin' here in your creeper van'n they don't know shit! It ain't no different for real—'cept, you know, we'd be kissin'n shit,"

"_'kissin'n shit'_—you say the most _bloody_—"

But Sniper can say nothing as Scout falls against him again, the sensation of holding him far from aiding him in his defiant stance.

"Yeah, some fight you're puttin' up," Scout grins, nestled in the reluctant embrace of his friend, the older man narrowing his eyes before kissing his ear.

"...I want you man, and that's that; I don't need no boyfriend, we ain't gotta be more than friends—I just want some _sex_—so what is it? We gonna do it or not?!" Scout asks in a strained voice, his features serious with determination. But Sniper finds as he places his lips against Scout's again, the same resistance typical to their interactions flares up as always.

"Wanka."


	6. Cigarettes and Scoldings

Scout grimaces, for it takes three flicks of his finger for the coiled ash clinging to his cigarette to land with a soundless thump against the dirt. He hopes, for the sake of appearance, that his comrades, with whom Scout has the pleasure to enjoy this designated smoking break with, think nothing of his hesitancy—or rather his obvious scrambles to hide the nebbish attempts at leaning back carelessly against the wall, fingers jerking quickly as his cigarette threatens to slip from between them.

The left corner of Scout's thin mouth tugs upward, eyebrow cocked as he surveys Jane in his cycle of lethargic drags. Dmitri too blows smoke from his cigar, and Rick, their Engineer, blows slight smoke rings in tiny whistles between his teeth, dragging a finger lazily in the dirt.

'_So this is how it was, huh? This is what it's like out here, smokin' with them_'

Scout sighs, taking in another pull of nicotine, though barely holding the scorching smoke in his cheeks before blowing it back out again. To him it seemed pretty damn stupid; was it really worth it, standing right outside of the BLU base, lying across from RED's? Every second they stood out there, uninterested, disengaged, and unarmed, they risked death. Though they were a civilized (the term is to be used rather loosely in this case, however) myriad of men who all held the ethics of war close to their persons, it only took one instance of abandoned morals on RED's behalf to obliterate the docile BLUs. Scout wouldn't have blamed them, they would deserve it, putting on such an inadvertently mocking display for their enemies.

Though of course Jane's insistence that BLU's base would remain a smoke free environment was held up in accordance to whatever other laws the man took upon himself to enforce. Jack, Scout notes, had always smoked when he felt—then again he also did so in the comfort of his own van. Still, Scout had been by his side in the past to bear witness to the Australian scoffing at the young man's comrades, proudly proclaiming that RED's base doubled as a giant ash tray, considering the only one of them who _didn't_ smoke was their Scout—and even then it was only for health reasons.

"Aw, shit, it went out—hey yo, Jane, can I see your lighter again?"

The others glare at Scout as if the brief interruption of their silence had personally doused and snapped each of their smokables in half. Regardless, Jane hands the young man his plastic, fluorescent yellow lighter in one heavy handed gesture.

"Yeah, yeah, thanks."

Jane—or no one else even—says nothing; Though Scout commands attention of their disgruntled gazes as he still stands with an unlit cigarette after six attempted flicks of the lighter.

"No, no—ya gotta use the side of your thumb!" Jane growls, and in one fluid demonstration a small flame flickers before Scout, the young man sticking his cigarette into the fire with widened eyes.

Scout attempts to mutter a thank you, but the clutch of smoke on his lungs chokes him instead, thus rendering him only able to settle on with appreciative wave of his hand instead.

"Come to think of it, you don't usually smoke with us, do ya, kid?" Rick asks quietly.

Scout's cheeks redden as he looks directly upward at the sky, answering the man's question with a silent shake of his head. "You even takin' the smoke in, boy? Looks like you're just swishin' it in your cheeks then flingin' it back in the air! 'S waste of a good cigarette!" Rick chuckles, the other two indulging in slight laughter as well.

"Hey, how 'bout you mind your own business, alright?!" Scout bends over, crushing the filter into the ground and entering the base without another word.

-

It wasn't such a good habit to get lost in; certainly not if its indulgence involved Scout sneaking out of his base during evenings to enjoy a cigarette without the watchful criticism of his well smoked comrades.

He'd stolen a pack of Sniper's cigarettes some two weeks ago. Scout had decided to try the habit himself, just once; Sniper'd always seemed so calm when he had one in his mouth, the look giving him an aura of well versed and knowledgeable maturity. The way he'd lean back and his eyes would close behind his sunglasses before his lungs would give way and expel the smoke back into the atmosphere…

He'd always remembered his mother complaining the way Luc would give her a kiss after smoking, but Scout rather _enjoyed_the taste the residual tobacco left behind in Sniper's mouth. The smoky undertones that enhanced their make out always aroused him, for some reason, as if it gave Sniper even more of a presence, impact, definition.

Scout had even timed it so; as soon as the filter hit the tray he'd crawl into Sniper's lap, and within seconds his tongue was poking in between Jack's teeth, begging for entrance. Sniper would grant him his wish, and Scout would find himself lost in the taste of the Australian.

"'Hm; I wonder what Jack would 'ave to say if 'e were to see you enjoying such a 'abit…"

Scout groans audibly as the frame of his stepfather stands before him, a gentle smile resting upon his unmasked lips.

"Fuckin' creep, how long you been watchin'?!"

"Oh, you are actually going to grant me zhe 'onour of responding to me; not long, to answer your question—I was only just enjoying a nice stroll—"

"Without your mask on?!" Scout raises an eyebrow, and Luc bellows a hearty laugh before ignoring him and continuing.

"And I zhought I saw you here, hidden outside on zhe side walls of your own base. I noticed a small flame, and told myself, 'surely Lawrence isn't smoking!', but clearly, you are—"

"You got somethin' to say about it?!"

"Actually _yes_, a 'andful of zhings; Zhe first zhing I suppose being zhat it does work to, er, _en'ance_ zhe bad boy image I suppose it is you're going for—"

"I ain't goin' for no fuckin' _image_"

"Zhen why are you doing it?!"

"I dunno, just—bored," Scout shrugs.

"You're letting it burn wizhout purpose, standing 'ere chatting away—"

"And who's fuckin' fault do you think _that_ is?! I didn't fuckin' ask you to stop and talk and me, fuckin' asshole! Don't even think about sayin' shit to nobody neither!"

"Who exactly do you zhink I _would_ say shit to?"

"I dunno..." Scout begins quietly, eyes darting to the side as they tear up from the smoke rising from the cigarette's end. "Ma or somethin', I - I guess..."

"Hmph - you mean you are grown enough to smoke, but not if Mommy finds out?"

"Fuck off,"

"One can always expect the maturest of responses from you, Lawrence..."

"Well, I mean it,"

"I never said you _didn't_," Luc sighs heavily. "As a matter of fact I 'ardly dispute it. If you didn't _mean_ zhings, you never would 'ave landed yourself zhe criminal record zhat brought you 'ere in zhe first place - don't _'it_ me now, Lawrence!" The Frenchman growls somewhat hastily, motioning away from his stepson, who assumes a defensive stance the longer their eyes stay connected.

"The _fuck_ is it you want from me, Luc -"

"'onestly, I'd like to know just 'ow long you 'ave been breaching your contract and _fraternizing_ wizh Jack -"

"The _fuck_ you know about him?!" Lawrence gasps, eyes wide and spherical, illuminated with iridescent shock and hesitant surprise. Luc watches the young man as he sputters, silent overall, though allowing his cocked auburn eyebrows to express that what his thin lips need not to.

"Well, zhere goes _your_ last chance to deny 'aving anyzhing to do wizh 'im -"

"I never said I _had_ anything to do with that fuckin' cockfag!"

"Not zhat I would 'ave believed you -"

"The fuck's he got to do with anything?! The fuck you even know about him?!"

"What _shouldn't_ I know about 'im as a _Spy_ zhat also 'appens to be 'is colleague?!"

"You know what I mean -"

"Nozhing, 'e just - 'e just let it _slip_ zhat _maybe_ you two 'ave been 'arbouring a secret and 'ighly complicated friendship since your arrival 'ere at 2Fort?" Luc chuckles, his eyes narrowing in mock pleasantry as they observe Scout's agitated pacing about the length of the steel wall.

"_Let it slip_?! Good goin', Snipes..."

"Do not take it so _personally_, I am only curious..."

"About _what_?!"

"Where you two are planning to take your friendship?" Luc asks with such innocence one would think the Frenchman meant to coax out of the young man a confirmation of performing a strenuous favour on his behalf.

"Who the fuck even said we were _friends_ -"

"Well, _Jack_ did," Luc grunts, Lawrence's tensed features actually letting up as his disgruntled mind settles into the peace he slowly starts to regain, churning the words about mentally in a cognitive tumble until he finds himself able to formulate an appropriate response.

"He said that, huh?"

"Said what?"

"That we were friends..." Lawrence inquires quietly, bringing the extinguished stump to tap against the edge of his index finger, silent as if he once again grew lost in the turbulence of his own ecstatic mind.

"Somezhing like it - it was certainly news for _me_," Spy begins a good thirty seconds later, followed by a curt clearing of his throat.

"That's cause it ain't shit that don't concern you and it ain't shit you need to know," Scout immediately snaps, hoisting his back from off the wall, his eyebrows furrowing inward moodily.

"So then I suppose I _don't_ get to figure out just _'ow_ your unlikely friendship came to be?"

"Maybe it ain't shit I really feel like tellin' you; maybe it's shit that don't even involve you anyway..."

"You say zhat, but I'm pretty sure as your stepfazher I can claim a stake in your wellbeing, non?"

"I don't understand why you gotta get in my business, though..."

"Well, I'm watching you smoke your little life away, for starters, not to mention zhere is zhis whole new _development_ of your cross factioned comraderie wizh Jack Mundy..."

"Forget about it - I'm done," Lawrence spits, tossing his butt into the sandy dirt before turning curtly on his heel.

"'E said you told 'im you _loved_ 'im?"

"_FUCK OFF, LUC_!" Scout roars, the Frenchman shrugging sheepishly.

"I ain't never said I loved him, I'm not a fuckin' _fag_," Scout stutters quietly, his reddening cheeks not going unnoticed by his vigilant stepfather.

"No, of _course_ not -"

"I'm _done_, Luc,"

"Well _alright_, Lawrence, I'll be along my way, but—are zhose my cigarettes?!" Luc gasps suddenly, wrenching the crumbled pack hanging from Scout's pockets, tucking them into his breast and glaring at the young man.

"Nah, they're - they're Jack's..."

"Hm—'e snatches packs from me on occasion 'imself,"

"And?"

"Maybe zhe next time you decide to breach your contract to visit 'im, you can tell 'im I do not appreciate it,"

"Who gives a fuckin' shit what _you_ think?!"

"Look at my skin, cher, zhis is what zhirty years of smoking will do to it,"

Scout scoffs, for not a single pore upon the man's handsome face is blemished, save by the wrinkles and faults middle age has wrought upon his profile. No, his blue eyes are clear as always, his long, pointed nose having neither shrunk nor grown. His forehead is not splotched with any sort of bumps or oddities, his sandy blonde hair well kept as always.

"You look a fuckin' mess—"

"Exactly, so put it out before Jack sees you—I imagine you'd get more zhan a talking to from 'im,"

-

Spring was always Scout's favourite season; even more so now that he could spend their nights together with Sniper, whose back rests against the camper's exterior, the warmth settled and darkness masking their coupled escapades. Scout'd always be on the brink of dozing off, comfortable in his spot on Sniper's lap, the Australian's arms wrapped tightly around him. He'd still manage to bring the cigarette in his fingers to his lips despite his hold on Scout, the young man's nostrils flaring as he takes in the left over smoke his body has been growing to crave over the last couple of weeks.

He hadn't counted on addiction.

Digging discreetly into Sniper's pocket, the young man produces a cigarette for himself, twisting in Sniper's embrace and lighting the end of his cigarette with Sniper's, though the man doesn't notice, for his eyes are closed. Scout takes a drag of the cigarette he holds in the corner of his lips, taking the brim of Sniper's slouch hat into his hands and pulling it over the man's still concealed eyes.

"Put it out, love."

Scout's heart starts pounding, and he is most certain he hadn't heard the Australian correctly; he had a tendency to mumble in his thicket of an accent…Scout takes another drag regardless, leaning forward and lifting the hat back up, blowing the smoke teasingly in his face. "You little shit—can't believe you'd pick up somethin' like that—'s terrible for your health, 'nd you ain't gonna be able t'run your way outta bed if you keep it up—"

"Fuckin' hypocrite," Scout snaps, snatching the man's cigarette and tossing it in a powerful throw.

"HEY—!" Sniper sits up quickly, glasses dangling off his nose, absolutely murderous as he meets Scout's self pleased smirk.

"It wasn't anywhere near out, mate!"

Scout sticks out his tongue, grimacing and yelping as the older man tugs on it.

"Put it out b'fore I put _you_ out, mongrel," Sniper warns the young man who still sits in his arms. Scout laughs softly, gazing right into the other's eyes as he releases another defiant puff. Lawrence laughs outright as he tumbles to the ground, Sniper wrestling on top of him in an effort to pull the cigarette from between his lips.

"You're in a right playful mood t'night..." Jack begins, chuckling softly. "Playful enough t'let me hold y'like this,"

Thus spoke Jack the magic words. It is with the Australian's statement that Lawrence comes to realise he truly _had_ been complacently affectionate for the entirety of their evening together. He wriggles free from his prison of arm hair and unorthodox Australian scents, catching his feet, and slipping the cigarette from in between the corners of his lips in order to pincer it at his side.

"What? 'S nothin' wrong with bein' friendly! Dunno why y'always gotta shy away from your feelin's..."

"Right, 'cause runnin' your hands up my shirt is just _friendly_, Jack," Scout rolls his eyes.

"I mean, y'were enjoyin' it before I said somethin',"

"Maybe next time you shouldn't say nothin' then..." the young man retorts haughtily, groaning from indignant surprise as Sniper stands himself, taking his time in approaching Lawrence before snapping the cigarette nonetheless.

"Yeah, how d'you like it?! If I catch ya smokin' again, it'll be _you_ I'm gonna snap in half! Where'd you pick up such a habit, anyway?!" Sniper asks indignantly, takenaback as Scout rolls his eyes, simply producing another cigarette from his hip.

"Australia."


	7. A Sleazy Aftertaste

"What's'a matter with you?! You haven't said a word all morning!" Sniper exclaims, taking his eyes off the road briefly as he places them on the lean figure who sits next to him in the passenger seat. He can't ignore Scout with his expression so dull and legs propped against the dashboard. "'S not like you at all t'stay so quiet."

Sniper hopes that the younger man wasn't regretting his decision to accompany him on his expedition to the mountains. He would be the first to admit that his idea of leave was less than invigorating to most people—especially the energetic _youth_like Scout. Yet somehow Sniper can only fear that Scout is only seconds away from demanding the Australian turns around and takes him back to 2fort despite the wayward dent in the distance he'd already made since this morning.

Perhaps Scout was simply beat. The weather was certainly grey, a rainy slush of a dreary bastard that only seemed to spread in its influence the farther along the van went along the highway. Though a warmth sprawled its way about the outside, March typically known for running a bi-polarized course that whose end either meant heaps of snow or the beginnings of an insufferable heat. Sniper could crack a window and let the air whip inside, turn on the radio, tell an interesting story or two, yet nothing seems to stir the speechless Scout beside him.

Scout's face twists into an apathetic, lethargic smile, his eyes gazing out the front of the windshield.

"Ain't nothin' to talk about for real," Scout snaps, Sniper scoffing, smirking as he faces the barren highway again. He chuckles at the idea, shaking his head gently; like Scout _ever_ ran out of things to say.

"What's so funny?!"

"Nothin', absolutely _nothin'_—"

"Plus you're always whinin' 'bout how I don't _shut up_, so guess what _slugger_, wish fuckin' _granted_—"

"—Well, sure does look like y'got somethin' on your mind, whatever it is it's eatin' right through ya'nd takin' a piss all over your mood," Sniper comments, his voice light and curious, Scout letting out a grunt and nothing else.

"Nah, just takin' in the scenery," he sounds so underwhelmed, Sniper notices, the only sound now being the squeak of tires against the wet asphalt of the linear road, the grey skies of the approaching northwest scattered above their heads.

"Never known ya t'be a _silent_ observer," Sniper jests, Scout turning his nose upward and and resting the tips of his fingers against his temple.

"There's a lotta shit you don't know about me," Scout spits, though unaware of his friend's raised eyebrows, his lips curled in a takenaback grin as he brings his gaze back onto the road before them.

"Oo, _sassy_."

Neither of them speak again. Scout brings a hand to the bulky knob along the dashboard, the taped fingers twisting it in hopes of picking up at the very least a jumbled talk radio. Hell, even a gentle undertone of shoddy radio transmissions would play a part so as to shatter the eminence of aggression seeping from the younger man.

Sniper dares another swift, subtle jerk of the head in an attempt to peek yet again at the scowling brunette beside him. Strange how it was that silence and peace were the things Sniper had pleaded of Scout. Though now, in a present in which any sort of verbal expression from the Bostonian was _less_ than expected, he would have relinquished the world if it meant making the boy beside him smile in one of his wide, sincere grins.

Sure, the forests on either side were thick and Scout liked the way the van smelled of pine when Sniper let the windows down, and he enjoyed hearing tales of Sniper's life back home, but it just seemed so neverending, and it didn't help that he'd been cramped in the passenger seat since seven that morning, and that it was already noon and they _still_ weren't there yet, and that they hadn't passed another car in ages.

"Yo, you got your license, wombat?" Scout asks with sudden realisation, Sniper laughing with a deep menace.

"'s neither here nor there, Scout—let's just hope my ten year old Australian one cuts it," he grumbles, drumming his hands along the steering wheel. "Not that I'm tryin' to get us pulled over,"

"Yeah, well, this fuckin' thing's been rattlin' for the last hundred miles; you didn't tell me we would be ridin' in a fuckin'_deathtrap_..." Scout sighs, wondering just _how_ the Hell he managed to get his van from Australia to the U.S. in the first place...

"She'll be alright—y'don't know'er like I do..."

"Well you better not get our asses fuckin' stranded," Scout snaps, looking out the window and back at Sniper.

"...You've been here ten years and you still ain't got a license?!" he asks suddenly.

"When you're huddled up in a bloody nest shootin' brain matter about for a livin', you'd be bloody surprised just how much o'daily life starts to slip past ya," Sniper snaps, turning off the painfully straight line in what Scout feels may as well be_hours_.

"'s long as you got yours, there shouldn't be too much of a problem," Sniper mumbles, though out of the corner of his eye he can see Scout retreat back to the bored pout his face has embodied all day now.

"You wanna go lay down? I can pull over 'n let you in the van if ya want—"

"S'alright..."

"...You gonna tell me wot's wrong, love?"

"Ain't nothin' wrong for real, I just—" Scout begins, but a sudden frustration wells inside of him, rendering him unable to speak. "Fuck it," he pouts, Sniper saying nothing in response.

"I just didn't think it would be so damn _boring_,"

"Well maybe I shoulda left your arse back at 2fort, you ungrateful bugger," Sniper snaps, taking a sudden offense to Scout's ingratitude. "'S not my fault Luc beat ya home to Boston—yeah, s'right, I know about you'nd Luc! Would'o appreciated it if you'd told me my colleague o'ten years was your Goddamn _stepdad_, y'know..."

"Maybe it wasn't none of your _Goddamn business_, you ever think about that?!"

"'Twas always a possibility,"

"Well I don't give a shit about where the fuck that cuntrag's goin'; he sure as Hell didn't beat me nowhere, either,"

"'S not the way he was makin' it sound,"

"FUCK HIM, MAN!" Scout whines, Sniper chuckling to himself as he thinks he's found the source of Lawrence's frustration.

"Damn shapeshiftin' rat,"

"You shouldn't talk 'bout him that way, he really does care a lot about you all," Sniper explains, Scout's arms folded and brow wrinkled, his head leaning against the glass of his window.

"I may not always see eye to eye with 'im, 'nd he can sometimes be a bit of a bastard, but I do know he loves you and your mum and brothers very much,"

Scout scoffs.

"Nice to know he just dishes shit out about our personal lives,"

"'Nd I know you were always real close t'your Mum 'nd Dad—"

"Just drop it, wombat—"

"Well imagine how she feels, her youngest son goin' off to war like that!"

"I didn't just _go off to war_, Snipes! I have my fuckin' reasons!"

"You enlisted to rebel against Luc—the best way to get back at the man who'd been stealin' all the attention from mummy these last few years was to enlist for the opposite faction 's soon as you were old enough t'sign your life away—"

"Hey, fuck you, alright?! That wasn't it at all—!"

"'S not what Luc said—said you've been threatenin'im with it for years—"

"'S not even true!"

"Oi, I'd've appreciated it if you'd told me my comrade's been livin' with you and buggerin' your mum the past fifteen years—"

"It never freakin' mattered though—why in the Hell would I talk about'im if I left home to get away from that shit in the first place—?!"

"See?! You're even admittin' you left your family for your own selfish gain—"

"I certainly wasn't no fuckin' help feelin' miserable and handin' out newspapers for a living—!"

"What about your brothers?!"

"They were fuckin' gone!"

"Well you're still a bloody idiot, enlistin' 'cause you wanted payback on your stepfather—what were ya gonna do, actually kill'im?!" Sniper asks in a strained tone of curiosity, Scout's eyes watering as his hand steels against the handle of his door, as if Sniper's question sent him smacking back against a wall.

"When it comes right down to it, you, towerin' over'im, Luc beggin' ya for mercy—are you really gonna be the one to do'im in because mummy wasn't tuckin' ya in a night at twenty years old?!"

"What fuckin' right do _you_ have to question me—?!"

"I'm askin' ya because, whether you could do it or not, whether you truly hate him so, you've landed yourself in the middle of this conflict because of it. Whether it's bloodlust you've got ragin' in that little body o'yours, or whether they're just the leftover dregs o'teenage senses of rebellion, you've got nine highly trained mercenaries after your head 'cause you're pissed at your stepdad," Sniper explains gravely, Scout's expression wrinkled with fury, his arms tucked moodily, his lips puckered in a seething pout.

"Did you even know anythin' about the factions?! Or the missions before enlistin'?! Is this what you wanted?!"

"You have NO fuckin' clue why the Hell I enlisted, or _what_ I want! You or Luc don't know shit, alright?! You don't know nothin' about me, or my fuckin' family, or Boston, or where the Hell I come from—you haven't spent a fuckin' day or even an_afternoon_ in my fuckin' house, so don't say shit or try to fuckin' _read_ me like you know what you're gettin' into!"

Scout's furious lash strikes silence from the older man, who, though he had a million and _one_ things to say to shut Scout up in return, finds the confinement of the van to be much too small and the ride to be much too long in order to _use_ them.

Still, Sniper can't help but laugh at the end of Scout's rant, wondering too if Luc wasn't right about the Scout being all that good of a match for him.

"Touchy, aren't you—?!"

"Forget about it—let's just—can we talk about somethin' else?!" Scout pleads, but sure enough that same awkward silence plays between them again.

Sniper turns his head every now and then, the scoffs and mumblings of his companion wrenching him from his attention to the road.

"Sorry, I s'pose it isn't any o' my business,"

"No, it really ain't," Scout scathingly hisses in return, and the two men say nothing until the patter of rain hitting the windshield begins picking up again, and all Scout can do is groan.

"Listen Lawrence, I'm not gonna cart your pissy arse around for the next week,"

"_Fuck you—_"

"'Lright, _Scout_, I'd calm down'n watch who I were _fuckin'_, the fact you're sittin' here next to me is all a favour for _you_—I didn't want you t'be alone 'cause I care about ya, but if you don't drop the 'tude, I'll drop you' right here, on the side of the road—"

"I wish you _would_! Anythin's fuckin' better than being stuck with you in this rattlin' piece of shit—!"

But Scout falls silent as Sniper swerves to the edge of the highway, and Scout can feel the van bounce and jerk underneath him as it hits the outskirts of the unlevel forest floor.

"You always threaten me with shit but never follow through, wombat," Scout explains in that scolding sarcasm he loves so dearly.

"You wanna see me follow through, mate? 'Cause I'm waitin' on ya t'go ahead'n find your way out,"

Scout chuckles, nodding his head and smirking, his eyes still under the fumingly silent gaze of his friend; the gaze Sniper was certain was assigned to the expression of choice whilst _murdering_...

"Well you ain't gotta wait long—" Scout smirks, lifting the lock and lacing his hand along the handle.

"Get out—!" Sniper growls, Scout smiling still, a laugh of disbelief escaping his chest.

"What—?"

"I'm not givin' you much longer, boyo, so I suggest you find a way t'get your scrawny arse out the van before I push you out myself,"

"You're jokin', right?!" Scout laughs nervously, but Sniper's eyes are cold behind his glasses, his expression free from any of the telltale signs of weakness Scout had learned to recognize.

"You're really just gonna leave me out here?! In the fuckin' _rain_, don't even know where the _fuck_ we are—!"

But Scout's skin tingles with an unpleasant sense of realisation as he looks from Sniper to back out the window, rain water falling in lazy sheets along the glass.

"Alright, then," Scout nods, his voice cocky but somewhat cautious, as if testing the man, as if Scout is _certain_ he'll let up with a punch to the arm and a deep chuckle.

He lets the handle of the door lift, and the rain, hitting the drenched soil, gets louder as the door proper flies open, Sniper staring him down ever still, silent as the marksman could possibly be..

"I don't believe this, wombat!" Scout shakes his head as he places a black kleet into the soggy earth, his leg slipping as muddy traction ceases to exist.

He shakes it off, however, his shirt staining with the rain falling onto his body, and turns to face the older man who sits comfortably behind the wheel.

"Have a nice camping trip, dingo!" Scout salutes, Sniper reaching over and slamming Scout's door closed, the van starting, sputtering mud every which way beneath its wheels before the man takes off without another word.

"Fine then! Get fuckin' lost already! Ya Aussie bastard!" Scout shouts after the van that finds itself back on the road, Scout raising a self assured eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah, Jack, I know you'll be back. You can't just leave me out here!" Scout shouts after the continually fading spec of an automobile in the distance that is the camper van.

"Kangaroo killin' fucker."

Scout twists left and right, moving to lift his kleets from out of the muddy entrenchment, his hair soaking rapidly, his clothes darkened with moisture. Though despite it all Scout maintains his haughty grin, because there was no way Sniper would ever leave his own friend alone on the side of the highway without money, especially considering the weather and the fact that he had no fuckin' idea where he was.

"Guess I should go find somewhere t'sit," Scout mumbles, his thighs nearly reaching his chest, the slush of rainy dirt clamps so powerfully against his feet.

"Yeah, s'alright, better than sittin' around with his borin' ass," Scout scoffs to no one in particular, for internally Scout knows that he himself can hardly believe the words he speaks.

The memory of the man's words about wearing a jacket cause the young man to scrunch his face with indignation, his taped hands latched onto his filmy, goosebumped biceps. He'd simply decided his standard grey pants with a light grey, form fitting t-shirt would suffice, finding the fitted dark green thermal undershirt, windbreaker, and thick brown pants Sniper had worn excessive, and yet now he knows just _why_ the man had dressed so. The sleek shine the water influences on his skin gives Scout a sort of squelching sound each time his hand slides along his arms, his grin faltering as not a single car goes by.

"Damnit, Jack! Come back already! This shit ain't funny no more!" Scout screams, looking left and right down the barren road to make sure no one is about to witness the young man in such a conundrum.

"Jack!" he calls, knowing full well it would bear no result. He steels his leg and wrenches the kleet from the swampy glue of the earth, Scout cringing at the wet, bubbling sound of suction that occurs when he pulls his foot free, his whole calf and shoe covered in mud.

"Fuckin'—" he sobs, the sharp sniff smelling of pine and dampened nature, the reality _that_, he was stuck out here, somewhere that could be _anywhere_, with no clothes, food, or money settling in so deep as to uproot his haughty sense of bitterness toward the man who set him out in the first place.

Scout shakes his head, moving forward along the highway's edge—was pride really worth the struggle of radical discomfort?!

"Gotta find a gas station or somethin', call s_omebody_—" Scout reasons, but who the Hell was he gonna call?! Luc, who was already trainbound to Boston?! Or Ma or maybe Christopher or Alex, his two oldest brothers?! It was always an option, and as of now, his _only_ option. But he would call them, sure, but what could they do about it?! Drive all the way from the East Coast to come and freaking pick him up?! And then what, take him back to Boston?! Or 2fort?! It's not like he could even tell them where he _was_ for them to come and get him in the first place!

"A fuckin' umbrella woulda been nice," he moans, his eyes weaving in and out of focus as the rain stops, the water only altering itself to form a gentle, slightly humid fog caused by the warmth of a subtle Spring. The forest, aligned with the two lane road in the middle, seemed almost like a repeating wallpaper. What was the point of going forward if forward was always just beyond his reach?! It's already been a half hour and Scout swears he's walked past this fuckin' tree at least three times already.

"_Shit_ I'm hungry," Scout whines, scoffing as the image of him rummaging along the forest floor in a loin cloth with ratty ass hair for mushrooms settles itself mockingly in his mind's eye.

"He loves this nature shit, crazy..." Scout tries to beam, his eyes beginning to water as he realizes his friend would not be coming back.

"I'm sorry," Scout whimpers, and a rush of anxiety hints to unfurl in his chest, Scout letting his arms fall to his sides in defeat, his expression stunned. It wasn't Sniper's fault Luc had been buggin' him so badly, Scout's bad mood obviously having been enough for the Australian to handle.

"I shouldn't'a said those things, Jack," Scout mumbles, twisting his face as he steps into a large puddle, the splash of it even seeping into his mouth...

Ultimately, Sniper was right in that he really _had_ set his own pride aside in giving into Scout's wish to be with him despite trying to remain firm in his decision. It was out of selflessness, Sniper's ultimate refusal to let Scout experience the barren, lonely reality that was the echo of a deserted 2fort.

Despite Scout's relation to the man, Sniper still enjoyed his solitude; having a 'break' meant for Sniper _'having a break from everyone'_, including the master of rapid recovery, and yet he'd allowed Scout to make plans with him indeed. And Scout really _did_ want to spend leave with him—dearly so, even—but Luc of course had given him sass the day before, and all Scout could focus on was the bitter reality of his searing jealousy, his longing desire to be the only one coming home to Boston for holiday, the one his Ma and brothers anxiously awaited at the train station.

Too many times had the image of a Ma reduced to a drenched face played out in the mind of Scout, a mind that was all too guilty of glorifying his sense of self. How she'd wail and cup his cheeks and prattle on in front of the other patrons of the terminal about how he's _grown_, gotten taller, handsome, _stronger_, how he's tanned, and how his brothers'd missed him _so_.

He'd sometimes lie awake at night, beaming at the ceiling over the thought of his brothers _begging_ him to share the finest of his war stories and victories, to share it all, not to skimp, and they'd all share a laugh as Ma would warn him to spare the gore over the dinner table.

The laughter only became more booming with each time the dream occurred, Scout noticed. But sometimes it also became more raucous, and though Scout's eyes were open, though he sat miles and dimensions away from these scenes, that biting laughter took longer and longer to shake away, and grew more and more mocking in pitch and timbre, until, _finally_, the laughter of Luc was all Scout could hear when he thought of _home_.

It only festered within him, this bitter resentment; why should Scout be the one who reserves himself to the confines of the base, why in the Hell was he the one poutin' in the rain on the side of the road while the 'filthly Frenchman' (as Scout _lovingly_called him) was the one bound to see the most precious people in Scout's life?! Why in all the Hell did Scout find it so damaging to his ego to share his time at home with Luc? And worst of all, he'd let it all get in the way of his time with Sniper.

"Listen to me, apologisin'—he shoulda just let me be, instead of callin' me a fuckin' brat, talkin' 'bout my family that way—he provoked me!" Scout tells himself, digging a hand into his trouser pocket.

Scout glares longingly at the twenty cents he produces from his pocket, his smirk turned grimly at the small key in his hand, the memory of Sniper telling him 'not to lose it' and that if they got separated, he always had a way back into the van.

"Some fuckin' good'is'll do me," Scout snaps, motioning to throw the silver metal, grunting however and pocketing it before doing so outright.

But of course he just keeps moving. It's all he can do at this point.


	8. A Rarity

The rain had long since stopped, but the desperation in Scout's increasingly more prevalent subconscious had staggered itself into a filthy muddling of anger and worry—_Sniper_, the one who'd so easily cast him aside, who seemed not to care at all about what would come from leaving Scout in the forest without provisions.

He stands up and buckles the belt after his trousers are secured around his waist again, Scout wandering with an unenthusiastic exhaustion toward the side of the road, cross armed and lips pressed together as he thinks of a way out of all this. He couldn't just stay in the forest all day and grumble his problems away whilst his bum sat submerged in mudddied water—or doing so certainly wouldn't take care of the problems _themselves_.  
>Scout kicks the ground, his eyes widening however as an actual <em>car<em> approaches—the exterior still some distance away, though visible as the long roads of the west are prone to allow.

Sticking his thumb out hopefully and praying to _God_ he doesn't get stuck with some creeper—or that they don't _ignore_ him, Scout bites down on his lip and his pupils follow the alight curve of the car as it does indeed get closer, slowing in its speed, making it quite clear that it _does_ notice him—

And sure enough it does indeed start to slow some feet away, Lawrence jogging his way over, spirits elevated. "Oh thank God!" Scout beams, making his way to the idling automobile, eyes widening as he catches a glimpse of the interior. "Scout! Vat in zhe Hell are you doing out hier—?!"

"YO! DOC!" Scout grins, rushing to the light blue car he presumes to be Medic's, the sleek exterior meticulously clean, the tail pipe emitting hardly any exhaust at all. He beams at the older German, placing his bandaged hands in a generous wave.

"Why leetle Scout in rain all alone?!"

Scout grins as he pokes his head into the rolled down window, meeting the faces of Mikhail and Heinrich hopefully. "Holy shit, guys!—Man, am I glad to see you two—! Mind if I slide in the back?" Scout grins as the German nods curtly."Yes, Junge, get in!" Heinrich nearly shrieks, there being no need to tell the shivering Scout twice—The young man sighs lightly, laughing disbelievingly at the sheer odds of his luck.

"Man, you guys! Holy shit! This is freakin' crazy! Runnin' into you guys! You've—You've saved my _ass_—!" Scout laughs, his bottom squeaking as he shifts inside the car, his wet clothes sliding along the rubbery back seat.

"I though I was a goner! Seriously, out in the rain with nothin'! I owe my life to you, Deutschbag!"

"So it seems! You will be lucky zat you do not catch a cold!" Medic glares sternly at the boy in his rear view mirror, Scout chuckling as Mikhail sits in the passenger seat next to him, a sandwich in his hand, his face content, lips upturned in a wobbly smile.

"Yeah, yeah—"

"How in all ze vorld did you get out here?!"

"'S a long story, Fritz, let's just say I got into it with my cheuffeur," Scout mutters darkly, Heinrich raising an eyebrow. "You could say I got kicked off the bus for gettin' into it with the driver—"

"And vhere vere you trying to go—?!"

"Y'know, just...up," Scout replies dully, and he winces at how dumb of an explanation he provides. "Your story leaves much to be explained, Junge—"

"It don't matter, either way dude left me on the side of the road with no money or food, I don't even know where the Hell I am—!"

"You are in Montana, a good vay avay from 2fort—I von't _pry_, but I must qvestion your judgement if you are hitching rides vizhout money or knowledge of vhere you are, _especially_ if it leads to me finding you on ze side of ze road!"

"Yeah, yeah, doc—where're you'n lard fat headed?!"

"Ach—ze Engineer has invited us all to spend leave at his ranch—you vere invited of course, but obviously you had plans of your own—"

"Yeah, pretty much—"

"You're lucky no one tries to hurt you," Mikhail explains gravely, turning in his seat to face Scout. "Many people claim to give free rides, then drag boy or girl into forest and _keell_ them—"

"'s what y'all're gonna do to me, huh?!"

"Ach, vat a disgusting zing to joke about—!" Heinrich scoffs, and the two others share a brutal grin. "So what's the plan, Deutschbag—?"

"Scout, put—on—a—seatbelt—!"

"Alright, alright, quackers, calm that down!" Scout scrunched his face, letting the small click of the contraption echo, Scout's face drawn back in mock surprise as he waits for approval from the disgruntled German currently carting him about. "It is up to you—I could take you vith us to ze ranch of course, or drop you off somevhere along ze vay..." Heinrich explains, Scout sighing as he rationalises his options, the obvious choice being to stay put with his comrades. "Alright, yeah—I don't got no money or clothes, though,"

"It is not so schlimm—I am sure Rick vill have clozhes to lend you at zhe ranch, and I vill give you some money as long as you promise to return it to me upon arriving at 2fort," Heinrich explains in what Scout thinks is meant to be a warm and endearing tone, the doctor however about as gentle as a rusty saw. "Hey, thanks," Scout grins, and Scout leans forward, resting his arms against the back of Mikhail's seat.

"So what's up—you can't drive or you're not allowed to leave Doktor Mama's sight?!" Scout roars with laughter as the burly Russian forms a soft "oh!" face, his lips round and his eyes wide. Scout swears he sees a slight smirk curl along Medic's lips; not that he would ever tell them his own "Mama Sniper" had established the very same rule for himself.

"I crash automobile long time ago—since before coming to USA—!"

"Guess you Soviets can't drive, huh?! Must be all the radiation," Scout teases, the heavy man glaring at Scout's playful snarl.

"I drive many tanks in Great Patriotic War—tear apart tiny German baby men—!" Mikhail's laughter booms so loudly it causes Heinrich to jump.

"They all come—I say—_'Who will come to fight me—?!'_ and they all run away! Haha!" Mikhail laughs a gutteral laugh of triumph, Scout somewhat certain the Heavy's private recollection of how his stature single handedly assured Soviet victory over the Nazis is less than accurate.

"Ach! Do not compare Germany to zhose National Socialist monsters! You vill give ze Scout a bad impression of our people!" Heinrich scoffs, and Scout yawns as Mikhail gasps, having sparked one of the millionth USSR/Germany debates he's witnessed since becoming a comrade of the two older men some three years ago; Scout _loved_ the way their conversations always led to this...

He'd always wondered how the two men became such jarringly good friends —though Scout _always wondered_ whether something a little more than _friendship_hid itself behind their interaction—as, after all, it was only some twenty years ago the two nations were raping and pillaging the vastness of Europe and its people, shattering the world in hateful rivalry...

Not to mention Heavy's proud service as a Red Army tank Ace, and Medic's own forced draft into the war serving as a Wehrmacht field medic. Scout had questioned what it was that brought them so close together—yet his cheeks warm up as he thinks of Jack, and how, _somehow_, war simply had its way of bringing the unlikely together.

"...ve vere really so _vicious_ and all so _evil_ like you say, zhen vhy did I sneak across ze field for you every day, healing you ven our rifleman shot you in zhe stomach—?!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—! What's all this about, Doc?!" Scout asks incredulously, Heinrich clearing his throat before explaining valiantly.

"I vas drafted into ze Wehrmacht ven I vas just twenty zree years old— I had been a medical student in Stuttgart, and vas part of an active underground Anti-National Socialist student group. Ze Gestapo caught word of our activities—"

"Spare me, doc, get to the part where you saved Heavy's ass!" Scout grins, and he can see Medic's upturned nose in the rear view mirror.

"In order to avoid persecution, ve members of ze union could not refuse ze draft to ze Eastern Front—of course you couldn't refuse no matter what—! And so I was sent to ze Front as a Medic! Some of ze men in my Squad fought for ze Führer, vhile ozers did not, but instead fought for vat little of zheir homeland had not been maimed by zat _madman_, zheir country, all ze vhile praying for an Allied victory to put a stop to ze slaughter—!"

"Boring—!"

"Ve vere engaged viz ze Soviets! Our skvuad had zeir's met on every side—a small triumph for us—! But one day I got lost from my company—ze Heavy found me—I vas unarmed—zey had stormed our stronghold and vere coming to investigate for survivors; surely to kill zem! But ze Heavy stared down at me ze whole time, stopping his comrades from finding me. He goes to lift me up, and he takes me to zhe village vhere he had come from,"

"Doktor," Heavy whimpers, Scout shushing him and leaning forward.

"It vas ze very same village my company had occupied just days before ze Soviets regrouped and attacked," Medic explains gravely, Scout nodding for the man to continue.

"Ve had orders to round up all Jews of ze village and put zem onto the trains ze Reichsbahn had dispatched. I hid zem all, claiming to Herr Oberst it vas a "Jew free" town. Boz of us vere completely separated from our companies—zey must've zought ve vere fallen, no one came to search on our behalf—I did not speak Russian, but I could understand ze vord 'doktor' nonezeless—and he grabbed my hands, zhanking me in terrible German for saving his mozer's life—I offer to help him find his company—but instead ze dummkopf claimed he did not vant to leave me—"

"I would not leave Doktor," Mikhail grunts in confirmation. "Not after Doktor save my family and village,"

"Ven ve returned to ze village, it turned out it vas hosting many ozer vounded Russian men in a varehouse zey had turned into vat vas ze only 'hospital' for miles—and it vas here I vorked until ze end of ze var, viz Mikhail by my side," Medic explains, Scout damn close to tears.

"That's beautiful," he sniffs, clapping emotionally. "Encore, encore," he sobs, adding 'Medic's war stories' to his list of 'eye irritants', next to rainbows.

"How were you able to lug lard fat to the village—?!"

"Zis vas in his zinner youth," Medic grins, Heavy letting out a rumbling chuckle.

"Doktor's damn good cook," he beams.

"So how did you communicate?"

"I vas able to pick up a good enough Russian among ze men—vell, an _understanding_. Mine vas far from perfect and very broken, but I could be understood,"

"But now you two just use English?"

"Yes, sometimes ve speak in Russian—zough it has been nearly tventy years—!"

"DOKTOR—!" Mikhail shouts jovially, Heinrich jumping again and giving the Russian his full attention.

"Look!" he points a large finger out of Medic's window, and they all turn a head in its direction.

"Can ve—can ve please stop, doktor?!" Mikhail pleads, Heinrich groaning, but taking a nearby exit off the highway nonetheless. "What's the matter—Lard fat need a potty break?"

"I'm hungry!" Mikhail beams, and Scout raises an inquisitive eyebrow as the car drives onward down the smoothly paved highway.

"You were just eatin' a second ago—!" Scout grimaces, the bottomless sack of a stomach his comrade possessed never failing to both surprise and disgust him.

"Scout, you do not mind if ve shtop to get Mikhail some food?"

"Look, I just don't know why you always gotta play 'Mikhail Says', Doc," Scout smirks, his rumbling stomach however convincing him that maybe stopping for a snack wasn't such a bad idea.

"What should I get, Doktor—grilled cheese? Maybe I get sandvich—or maybe nice big bowl of cheddar soup—!"

"How 'bout a fuckin'_salad_?!" Scout teases, Mikhail gasping and glaring viciously at the howling boy in the back seat.

"Vould you keep it _down_, I am trying to merge out of zis lane _vizout_ causing our deazs!" Heinrich barks, hands steeled against the steering wheel, his nose nearly touching the windshield. Scout chuckles as he takes a peek from the rear window, smirking to himself as there's not even traffic to be wary of.

Heinrich pulls up to a diner mere minutes later, the parking lot itself nothing but dusty dregs of dark soil, each step laboured with the potential of kicking up dirt had the morning not spent itself soaking the world in rain. Scout steps out of the automobile, which sits in a silent, cooling state, his older comrades closing the doors and stretching their backs as well. Scout rests his hands behind his neck, scowling at the towering mountains with an unimpressed eye. It was beautiful enough, nothing a postcard hadn't already captured somwhere; interesting to Scout at this point was somewhere with something other than _cows_ and mountains that never seemed to get any closer despite how far along one really did go...

"You sure you vill be comfortable in vet clozes?" Heinrich inquires, wrenching Scout from his scathing scan of the Montana landscape.

"What else am I s'possed t'do, Heinrich, strip and eat lunch in the nude?"

"Ach! Zat vould be _ridiculous_—!"

"Way to explain the damn _joke_—"

"But if ve get zrown out because ze proprietor of zis diner does not ze offensive smell of vet _Scout_—"

"So you take the fuckin' food t'go, it ain't that hard! Unless Fatso's gonna order the whole damn menu—"

"I still do not decide what I will eat," Mikhail mumbles shamefully, eyeing his Medic with a touching frown.

"It is okay, Mikhail—"

"Well can we decide all this _inside_?! I've had enough of this outdoorsy shit for one day!"

Scout saunters behind his comrades with his hands in his pockets, staring at his feet as he follows them toward the entrance of the diner.

"..._doktor_,"Mikhail whispers, and Scout looks up suddenly to see Mikhail's enormous hand cupped gently around Heinrich's cheek, the palm of it however cradling the flesh of his friend with a sincere delicacy that Scout would _never_ think the heavy handed******* man could possess in any sort of scenario.

But Lawrence finds himself unable to look away at the touching scene unfurling before him, the aging German at a serene ease with his eyes pressed lightly shut, Mikhail's gloved hand stroking him with a touch that seemed to channel itself from anyone save the bumbling Soviet he'd grown to befriend over the last two years.

"C'mon, guys, _sheesh_—don't think they hold wedding services in diner parking lots," Scout snaps haughtily, striding forward and leaving the two behind. He contemplates the text displayed on the menu taped along the glass of the door, all of it sounding edible in his desperate state of malnutrition.

It was never too late in the day for pancakes...

"...swear I see van, Doktor..."

"Is zat not ze van of one of ze REDS?!"

"I think you are right, Doktor..."

"Wait, what?" Scout mumbles, tearing his attention away from the enticing lunch menu.

"Do you not recognize van, Scout?"

It's impossible the amount of energetic intrigue with which the Bostonian turns around, pivoting in full circle, surveying the boundaries along the parking lot. Sure enough, the familiar van of his Sniper sits idly in the parking lot, and Scout's jaw nearly_drops_ as he oggles the vehicle, his heart threatening to sling itself from outside the confines of his very chest.

"_Shit_! The camper van—!" he gasps, completely unaware and apathetic if his comrades find it at all suspicious that Scout is anything but worried or disinterested in the whereabouts of the camper's RED owner. "Da, it is van—Scout sees it before at base, nyet?"

"Yeah yeah, I've seen it," he responds shortly, though with the weight of an anvil the realisation hits him that rushing towards it and claiming he'd found the one who'd left him stranded was clearly _not_ an option.

"Scout—?! Is everyzing alright?! You look quite perturbed!"

"—nah, it's _nothin'_," the boy shakes his head, sucking on his bottom lip; he'd have to play it all rather cool, rather loose. He'd wait until they stepped inside the eatery to scan the diner for a sign of the man, leave the table saying he's going to the bathroom and confront Sniper out of the eyes of Heinrich—all the while avoiding any sort of attention grabbing _outburst_—

"I'm fuckin' _starvin'_, ain't you guys?!" Scout asks quickly, smiling weakly under Heinrich's questioning and suspicious gaze. "Mikhail, maybe you should go inside and ask if zey have a table ready for us," Heinrich suggests to the nodding Russian man who beams, eager to fulfill his friend's request. Heinrich nods as the soft bell of the door can be heard chiming as it slams behind him, the German clearing his throat and glaring seriously at his youngest patient.

"I know you recognize zat van, Junge—it is ze van of ze RED _Sniper_,  
>no?" Heinrich hisses, Scout instantly blanching and shaking his head smally, eyes round and as <em>wide<em> oranges—

"Scout, zis vould not be ze first time I have _happened_ upon what seems to be ze contrails of what could be misconstrued as some sort of acquaintance you may have wiz zis man—"

"What in the Hell're you talkin' bout, Sausage link, I ain't even say shit—!"

"You need not say a anyzing, you must understand you are about as easy to read as a child's picture book!" Heinrich snarls, adjusting his glasses and scowling down at his pouting friend. "Do not zink I have forgotten about zat day in ze Medibay a year ago—zat _man_ vas hysterical, he gripped me by my front and zreatened me with my _life_ if I did not save you—! To say you do not know him vould be an outright _lie_! One you cannot fool me into believing!"

Scout can't help but let his features soften at this fact, the intensity of Sniper's emotions for him having truly been a touching phenomena. "Vat is zis? Who is he, _vhy_ are you so enzralled vis him, and vhy did I find you on ze side of ze road covered in mud?!" Heinrich snaps with a forceful display of an obvious need for answers, Scout thinking silently for a moment as he tries to grasp just where the _fuck_ to begin with what he would call insanity.

"I ain't got no idea _'what this is'_either,Doc—but—you—you gotta promise not to tell Jane—please don't tell Soldier, man, he'd—"

"I vill not repeat a _vord_, Junge, you have my sincerity,"

Scout sighs, scratching behind his neck, his shirt squishing sickly as it cools in the lukewarm wind, his teeth chattering slightly as it starts to pick up.

"I dunno, man, but three years ago, back when I was new—I was just explorin' the fields'n stuff, after Engie was briefin' me'n showin' me the ropes—I saw the REDs had an apple tree on their sector, so I snuck around there and was pickin'em—"

"YOU SNUCK OUT OF BOUNDS DURING YOUR FIRST WEEK OVER APPLES—?!"

"And I met Jack—the Sniper—and, ya know, he was fuckin' spooked at first—shit, I was too, but he knew I wasn't tryin' to hurt nobody so he was helpin' me pick the fruit—but we just started talkin', and, I dunno, I thought he was kinda _funny_— but he caught me in their basement my first mission—It was up to me to get the intel that day—didn't have no backup, so it was all on me.

Anyway, I darted through, but I saw that red dot on the wall'n I actually _felt_ the fuckin' bullet fly through my fuckin' hair—but I was too fast for'im—saw him behind a corner and I knew I had the upper hand, you can't do shit with a sniper rifle in that range—dumbass tried catchin'me—but I made a break for their intel—dude fuckin' _lunged_ at me, grabbed me by the back of my shirt and yanked like there was no fuckin' tomorrow, and a split second later rockets from a fuckin' sentry exploded half the damn wall where I woulda been if the dingo hadn't grabbed me—"

"Zis Sniper is alvays _saving_ you, Scout—!"

"I was confused as Hell, he'd saved my fuckin' life! I thanked him man, scared the _shit_ outta me! My shirt was singed and I caught some of the blast, but man, I kept thankin'm, and he told me to scram, to get out and never come back—shit, I_didn't_, either, not for a while..." Scout laughs before sighing.

"So anyway, I wasn't just gonna let that happen without tellin' the dude thanks—he mighta been my enemy, but—so I found'im after the match, found him in his nest—he flipped out at first, but he was cool when I told him thanks or whatever. Made all these grumblin' noises, but he told me he didn't kill kids or newbies—"

"I'm sure you took _zat_ comment vell—"

"Yeah, gave 'im a piece'o my mind, then I kinda challenged him—told'imthat just because I was new that didn't mean I didn't know my shit—ended up fuckin' him over a few times, dude wasn't expectin' it from me—y'know, it was like a rivalry—the beginning of every match man, he'd grin at me behind those glasses, his smile was so _sick_—I'd grin back through, give'im the finger—soon as that siren went off we knew the other was fair game...

Man, we're both sore losers, though—I'd sneak to his nest after dinner, and when we started earnin' medals it was fuckin'_on_—we'd spend the whole night tryin' to outdo each other! Then, I dunno, we just became _friends_, and—"

"Zis has been going on since ze _beginning_ of your service—?!"

"I dunno why, I just—he was nice to me, he could tell I was new— but, y'know, whatever, we just got close, man, and that day, when you saw him in the batlements takin' care of me—we'd already been friends a damn two _years_ by that point—I was just as shocked as you were, Doc, when it came out that he was losin' his damn _marbles_ over me, but..."

"You mean to tell me you have been carrying on a fraternization vis ze RED Sniper for—?! Ach, _Junge_..."

"Uh _duh_, ain't you listenin'?!"

"Zis is a breach on our security, on ze mission—!"

"You ain't gotta worry, Doc, half the bruises we got are from each other! We don't trade no secrets and we don't ask; 's part of why I need him so much, he's the only thing keepin' me sane, the only one I can go to and the war just disappears—last thing we wanna do is fuckin' bring _that_ shit up when we're together—and you can't say fuckin' _shit_ either, dude, you betrayed your country over lard fat!" Scout growls fiercly, Heinrich blushing over the reminder of this fact.

"Yeah, remember how you gave up your whole _life_ for Mikhail, even though dude was out there kickin' Kraut ass?!" Scout glares, Heinrich scoffing and adjusting his glasses primly in response.

"It's the same fuckin' thing; can you tell me why you gave it all up that day for him?!"

Heinrich sighs and massages his forehead, concealing his face behind his palm.

"Tell me why _you defected_," Scout snaps, glaring at the verbally cornered doctor.

"...I cannot explain it myself, Scout..." Heinrich sighs wearily.

"It's almost as if you look at them and you fuckin' know there's somethin' about them, like fate don't give a shit _which_ side you're on, it's gonna make sure you're together—"

"I vould not vord it so _crudely_ myself, but, yes..."

"But do you regret it? Is Mikhail not the best thing that's ever happened in your life?"

"..."

"You even learned _Russian_ for him, Doc,"

"I assume you love him, zen?" Heinrich asks quietly, switching back to his _own_ closeness with the enemy and catching him by surprise. Scout's lips part lightly in an inaudible, shocked gasp...he darts his gaze to the side, Heinrich however _beyond_ aware of the answer.

"If vat you have wiz ze Sniper is anyzing like vat I feel for Mikhail, you must love him..."

"I mean—c'mon, Doc..." Scout snaps, scowling at the emotional sense of longing for the most precious thing in his life budding within him.

"Do ya really gotta put it like that?"

"Still, it does not _surprise_ me zat despite it all ze Sniper can only tolerate you in doses—I take it it was _him_ who left you out here?"

Scout grumbles.

"Vat in ze vorld did you _do_—?!"

"It doesn't matter, Doc, we just got into it a little bit—you know how it gets—sometimes you just, you _know_, you ain't in the mood..."

"I rarely ever have disagreements wiz Mikhail," Heinrich sighs.

"And how do ya _manage_ that?! Seems like me'n the dingo are always goin' at it, 'nd you two over here're in fuckin'_candyland_—"

"Do not take zis ze wrong vay, Scout, but you are—in German ve say _Gewöhnungsbedürftig_—"

"The _FUCK_—?!"

"Yours is not ze easiest personality to adjust to..."

"Hey, now—!"

"You are simply not a romtantic person! I imagine ze Sniper is also very colourful in his own vays and temperment; perhaps it is simply a confliction of your temperaments..."

"Yeah, but, every time I try makin' out he always shoves me away—I dunno, he's always grumpy, or whatever, or maybe I ain't in the mood—"

"It seems awfully strange zat your own boyfriend vould not vant to be intimate wiz you..."

"Uh, he ain't exactly my _boyfriend_, Doc-we may kiss'n shit, but we ain't datin' or nothin'. I mean, it wasn't until maybe yesterday I finally just accepted that I might be a fag'n that I love'im, right?! 'Nd I tried tellin'im; pullin'im aside'n tellin' him that _look_, there's somethin' between us—but God, he just—he _rages_, tells me I'm stupid'n that I have no idea what I want, 'n that he'll never, ya know, let it be more than friendship..."

"It must not be meant to be; perhaps you must come to terms zat you two vill only be friends!"

"Pfft—who _knows_ if we'll even be _that_ now..."

"It seems you have a powerful frienship, zough!"

"Yeah, but," Scout pouts, casting a look at the van. "Maybe sometimes I kinda want what you'n Mikhail have, ya know?! Like maybe I wouldn't mind it if Jack would just _stop_ in his tracks'n, 'n _look_ at me the way Mikhail does with _you_, holdin' me..."

"You vant to be more _affectionate_ wiz him?"

"Y—_yeah_..."

"Vell, have you ever had sex wiz him in ze past?"

"WHAT?! Doc, we ain't never gone _that_ far before!" Scout shrieks, Heinrich laughing at the bright pink Bostonian before him.

"Perhaps zen ze attraction simply is not zere—"

"Nah, Deutschbag, it _is_, he's just so fuckin' weird—paranoid as _shit_ that the administrator is watchin' for his van t'start shakin' back'nd forth or somethin',"

"If he tried to touch you, vould you let him?"

"I mean—_yeah_, but—"

"it takes years to cultivate a relationship, Scout; Mikhail and I have tventy years behind us. You and your Sniper still have plenty of time to figure it all out,"

"I guess," Scout sighs disappointedly, Medic clearing his throat and clasping a hand on his shoulder.

"It vould appear he is in ze diner—vould you like to go in and search for him?"

"Nah, I got a key to the van, I was just thinkin' about lettin' myself in the camper and surprising'im," Scout beams devilishly, Heinrich's eyes growing wide and uneasy.

"Do you zink it to be _vise_?! Vat if he is still angry?!"

"I was gonna apologise—and I don't ever say sorry, so y'all better get your fuckin' cameras rollin'..."

"I see—vell, zen I suppose I vill leave you to your judgement," Medic sighs, nodding curtly at Scout.

"Luck has truly been on your favour, today,"

"Yeah, I guess so—good thing Montana ain't nothin' but freakin' _lines_ for roads, otherwise we probably never woulda caught up to him,"

"Right; take care of yourself, Scout, and do not vorry, you and your Sniper are much, much closer zan you could ever zink,"

"How in the Hell do _you_ know?!"

"Because I've seen him when he is faced wiz the possibility of losing you."


	9. The Invertibrate

Scout whimpers slightly, twisting his frame that lies trapped underneath the comforter, the faint scent of the man left behind upon the pillow's surface a sedative against Scout's wired state of consciousness. He hooks the feathered cushion under his arm, cradling it gently, as if it truly _were_ an extension of Sniper's physical self.

The lightning cracks again, and Scout counts a silent three seconds before the van rumbles briefly again from thunder, everything streaked in an electromagnetic sheen of white, even if it is for hardly a moment.

Scout, who'd been lying in the enclosure of his friend's mattress since having snuck his way into the van earlier that afternoon, releases an aggravated sigh as the van hits another pot hole, sending the contents of the camper in a succinct airborne fit of anchorlessness.

_'When was Sniper gonna park the damn thing and come to bed?!'_ Scout had to scoff and blow a few strands of sleep tossed light brown hair from his eyes, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his knees.

Scout had snuck into the camper, taken a shower (though it was far from anything like home or even 2fort, the mobile bathroom less than accomidating than Scout would typically have it), fixed himself a bowl of cornflakes, doodled a bit in his colouring books (he had some crayons stashed away in his bedside back at 2fort), and even began a crude sketch of Luc without Sniper _once_ parking and actually _entering_ the trailer.

Scout doesn't necessarily _mind_ his timing, for it had given him the whole afternoon to dwell on the monologue he would recite to the man the instant his hand touched the knob and the door would swing open. It was already well into evening and Scout had refrained from turning on the lamp, afraid the Australian would see its glow in the rear view window and assume the presence of a hostile invader lingered within his abode.

Maybe if it caught his attention...

"Aw, _gross_!" Scout hisses as his foot catches in the still damp grey shirt and trousers he'd worn the duration of his day in the heavy rain, wiggling the clammy garments off his toes and stumbling toward the small bedside cabinet and reaching for the lamp.

The air within the van is cold, though is Scout adorned in nothing but a pair of briefs, for earlier it had been much more toasty. Scout's suitcase sits with unclasped hinges in the middle of the floor, articles of clothing sticking from its edges, the luggage a bulging mass of unceremonious disorganization.

_Seeing_ the clothes however motivates him no more to _actually_ put some on, the Bostonian actually _enjoying_ the freedom swirled hand in hand with ambiguous nudity.

He cracks his lower back before slipping back under the covers, sinking into the mattress and letting his eyes flutter shut. He slips his arms around the pillow again. He sighs as the images of Mikhail's large palm sliding along his doctor's cheek from earlier serve as an intellective reference for the tightness of his _own_ grip, the speed and feel of his palm along the surface.

They still had plenty of time to figure themselves out, Heinrich claimed. Their relationship was only just beginning...

How _would_ Sniper react if Scout were to just hold him so, silent and overcome by the magnitude of emotions he harboured for him?! Scout loved him, he really did, even if he'd spent the last year denying it with irrevocable words of hatred and vicious blows—

He presses his lips against the pillow, completely lost in the delusion of the fabric and it's serene role in Scout's hallucination.

If only it truly _were_ Sniper's lips, if only he really _was_ tangled in the man's bed side by side with the hunter. Scout hoped Sniper would return his affection with warmth of his own—it would only make sense two lovers would want to engage in the other. Washing away the events of the day, the anger and the argument, Scout, for once in his time knowing Sniper, didn't care how it made him appear; to start it all over anew and begin it all again with a look in his eyes Sniper can't deny, with intentions he can't refuse...a chance to tell Sniper that he _loved_ him was all Scout wanted. Things would change. They would be different.

-

"...Musta left the bloody light on..."

Scout, awoken by the gruff mumbles of the Australian, shifts not at all, but rather lifts his napping lids to catch a glimpse of the absolutely _beat_ man before him. Sniper removes his dark green thermal shirt, tossing it in apathetic exhaustion. He turns the light off in the middle of his waltz about the room, Sniper placing his hat and glasses on the bedside and stretching his arms about his head.

His toned abdomen catches Scout's fancy, and he follows the contraction in his hips caused by his stride with fiery eyes; the broad back seems to tower endlessly from Scout's view, Sniper's hands slipping the trousers from his waist and revealing a maroon pair of spandex boxers that left very _little_to the imagination...

Scout sinks in the covers, both from a sudden _wave_ of arousal and as a way to conceal himself. The man scowls as he steps on the soggy clothing still left without purpose on the floor. "What in the bloody—?!" the man snarls, flinching and picking the grey shirt up in between his thumb and forefinger, his features jutted in a face of disgusted bewilderment.

"Fuckin' Lawrence, leavin' his damn clothes all over the place..." Sniper throws it into a small hamper Scout presumes is for dirty laundry, the older man shaking his head over the slacks as well, the pants flung in the same fate.

"What'n the Hell...?!" Sniper grimaces, taking notice of the headset and grey cap resting near the mattress, twisting the accessories delicately into his hands and studying them before looking about nervously.

"Love musta forgotten 'em," he concludes, and Scout burns with furious curiosity over the intriguing question if Sniper was overcome in this moment with a terrible guilt at leaving him by his lonesome.

"Hope he's alright," he whispers, settling the boy's headgear onto the bedside cupboard next to his own, Scout sitting up gently, the covers slipping off his lean frame with a literal metallic smoothness, almost as if they were made from liquid silver.

Sniper, whose back is still turned to the American, cracks his back and grabs a toothbrush from one of the drawers, slipping away for a few moments' time to finish up his nightly routine.

Scout laughs darkly at the comment, never having known someone who would throw someone they claimed to _care about_out in hostility on the side of the road with _nothing_ and no means of contact - and then wonder sincerely that they were_okay_, at that.

Scout's feet fall lightly against the floor as he makes his silent way toward the sitting room of the camper, the whole van cast in darkness. The door to the bathroom creaks open and Scout can hear the pressure of Sniper's feet against the floor as he heads back to the bedroom.

Scout chuckles internally as he wonders what Luc would think of his sneaking skills as he tip toes behind the Australian. He_does_ stop in his tracks, grimacing slightly, _slowly_ turning his neck in an attempt to catch a subtle glance behind him—

"GAARGH—_SHIT_—!" Sniper jumps as Scout captures him from behind, one arm wrapped securely around his waist, the other swirled at his collarbone, causing a slight arch in Sniper's frame that forces his backside to brush against Scout's front.

"Better than ever, _slugger_—" Scout grins wildly in his ear, tightening his his arms in a constricting wrap.

"S'alright, I ain't no Spy—"

"Lawrence, how in the _bloody_ Hell—?! What—?!" Sniper gasps, twirling from the young man's grip and baring his teeth in an aggressive glare at his captor.

"How in the _fuck_ did y'get in 'ere?! I thought I left your sorry arse out in the woods—!"

"I'm a fuckin' _Scout_, Snipes, catchin' up is what I do! Told ya you couldn't ever outrun me!" he snaps, Sniper looking him up and down.

"What're you doin' in your bloody _undies_, just walkin' around the camper—!"

"Hey, you were the one that gave me a key, dingo!" Scout shrugs. Sniper grimaces as Scout strides past him, inviting himself back into the bedroom. "Don't give people no keys if you don't want'em in your _van_!"

"How in the _Hell_ did you—?!"

"I already told ya, Jack, I don't care of you gotta week's headstart in a fuckin' _rocket_, you ain't gonna get rid o'me! Might take a thousand years, but it's gonna fuck you up when you see my ass smilin' at ya from the fuckin' moon—"

"Bloody mutant," Sniper spits, Scout's arms folded and his grin insufferably cocky.

"Well y'made a mistake comin' back, _posey_, 'cause I ain't lettin' ya stay—"

"Hey Snipes, hear me out!" Scout whines, his brow wrinkled in teary eyed frustration.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry, wombat—I shouldn't a never said those things to ya—"

"You?! _'Pologisin'_—?!" Sniper chuckles, casting the boy a disbelieving grin.

"I _know_, dingo, so you know I mean it if I'm over here kissin' your ass—"

"You jus' expect t'whisper a half arsed sorry for bein' an insufferable little _dick_ after the way I completely sacrificed this week just so I could make y'happy?! I'm doin' everything this week for _you_, mate, 'nd you sit there treatin' me like shit! You're bloody mental if y'think I'ma fall for the tears, love—"

"Hey now! If you don't let me stay I'll tell my team you kidnapped me and tried rapin' me and leaving my mangled body in the forest!"

"Y;blackmailin' me now kid?!"

"Not—I mean, not _really_, but I'm tryin' to say I'm sorry!"

"Gettin' your arse ditched in cooee'll take the 'tude right outta ya, eh love?!"

"_Whatever—_"

"It'll change a tune right quick,"

"What're you sayin', Snipes?!"

"Y'wouldn't be the least bit sorry I hadn't left ya! You're lucky I don't have a mind to set you out right here 'nd now!"

"Hey maybe _you're_ the fuckin' prick, Jack, I'm standin' here tryin' to say sorry and you're still actin' butthurt!"

"Maybe y'should've gone somewhere else, then,"

"Hey, if I could come back once, I can do it again—_shit_, I _still_ have no idea where we are! But seriously, 's not your fault Luc is a fuckin' prick, and I shouldn't'a taken it out on ya—but at the same time, you were tryin' to pin some shit on me too, so you ain't in the right neither!"

"Maybe not, but it's _my_ van, so in the end I'm about as _right_ as any'o us're gonna get!"

"Alright, _yeah_—"

Sniper walks away, leaving Scout behind to ball his fists and emit a frustrated groan.

"Please, man—seriously," Scout glares, his features locked in an iron display of sincerity.

"I'm tryin' to tell you how I feel here, and you're just bein' a fuckin' prick!"

"Right, 'cause _you_ always lend a listenin' ear whenever I try t'seriously tell y'what I'm thinkin',"

"I ain't never _left you on the side of the road with no clothes, food, or money_—!"

"'S a first time for everythin',"

"Fuck you, if you're not gonna give me the fuckin' courtesy to at least _hear_ my apology then I'm leavin', I don't have time for this shit—"

"The door's on the right,"

"Seriously, anywhere is better than here—"

"_THEN WHY'D Y'COME RUNNIN' BACK, EH_?!" Sniper snaps, and Scout, who contemplates silently on his answer for a full minute, sighs heavily before he simply braces himself to _say it_.

"'Cause I love you, Jack—I love you so much, I really do..." Scout whispers, and he can see a stirring in Sniper's posture, the corners of his lips softening at the sight. The older man's back tenses, straight laced, threatening to snap as if his spine had been replaced by a metal rod.

"The _bloody Hell'd y'jus' say_-?!"

"I know I said some terrible shit, but I mean it when I say I want nothin' more than to be with you this week; if that weren't true, I wouldn'ta come back. If I could catch up to you, I coulda gone anywhere else, too. But _nah_, I came back _here_, for_you_,"

Sniper sighs, unfolding his arms.

"Did y'really jus' say—?"

"That I love you?! Yeah, I did," Scout finishes his sentence shortly.

"Luc just—he gets to me, alright?! He said some shit, and..." but Scout trails off and Sniper pulls him into a gentle embrace, Scout's arms instantly curling around his neck.

"Y'got t'mean it, love..." Sniper whispers, and he can't help but smile at the illumination that saturates Scout's features.

"I—I do; no tricks, man. I know I always told ya to fuck off in the past, but I mean it; I love you—it—I mean I always knew we were friends and shit, we were always messin' around and bein' dicks but when you saved me, I—I didn't know what it was, Snipes, but I really—I fell for ya," Scout nods, intrigued by Sniper's curious expression.

"So then what's up?! You love me back or what—?!" Scout questions shrilly.

"'Nd before I let you stay, you're gonna need to 'pologise to the van; she didn't like those comments o'yours 'bout'er bein' shoddy—"

"I'm over here, confessin'n shit, 'nd you want me to apologise to a fuckin' car?! I might as well make love with your fuckin'_toaster_, too—"

"Oi, you didn't jinx the toaster!" Sniper growls, Scout's expression softening with interest.

"She was workin' fine 'til you ran your little _mouth_—'bout'n hour after I left your skinny arse she broke down near a diner—spent the whole _afternoon_ tryin't figure out what was wrong! Finally got the van runnin' again and I was starvin' by that point!"

"Look, I wasn't tryin' to be mean when I called this thing a deathtrap, I was just tellin' ya that if we _died_, it was your fault!"

"'Course it is, 's always my fault,"

"Look, I ain't sayin' nothin', but—"

"'Nd you aren't gonna be _stayin'_ nowhere either if you don't say sorry t'the van!" Sniper glares, Scout rolling his eyes before uttering a pouting "my bad..."

"But nah...seriously," Scout mumbles, bringing his hands to Sniper's shoulders and craning his shining eyes so that they reflect off the steeled ones of Jack.

"I'm sorry, Jack—f'real," he nods, edging closer to the unresponsive man before him. "You know I wanna be with ya this week, I was just pissed off—people're allowed their moods, man..."

Scout scratches behind his neck, waiting a moment before glaring back up at the marksman.

"Look, if you ain't gonna forgive me then...!" Scout snaps, Sniper saying nothing and rummaging in his clothing drawer, producing a pair of linen pajama pants and clothing himself accordingly.

Sniper scoffs.

"I made ya this, just in case the sorry didn't work..." Scout whispers, slipping a piece of paper in the man's hands, and Sniper unfurls the folded construction paper, immediately resisting the urge to laugh as two simplistic renditions of themselves stand in each other's arms with before a coniferous backdrop, the camper van depicted as well.

"Just a visual addition to my apology," Scout shrugs, Sniper smiling smally and placing the drawing on his bedside. "I had some time to kill while I was waitin' for ya t'find me in here..."

But Scout falls silent as Sniper brings his hands to his cheeks, Scout frozen, and his eyes are so wide with anticipation as he gazes at the Australian man, his mind dipped deep in a petrifying wonder as Sniper stands before him. Sniper grumbles before kissing the corner of his lips, Scout's eyelids dropping as a large hand rakes through his hair, lips smacking gently against his own, Scout's whole body numb.

"I can't stay mad at you, love..." Sniper whispers, Scout assuming the lacivious role and kissing the man, Sniper leading him into the bed by his hips.

"And it bloody _kills_ me."

Scout grins haughtily, sliding in between the man's legs and snuggling against him.

"So can I stay?" Scout asks meekly, Sniper pulling Scout so he lies on top of him, heaving chests pressed together.

"Only if you behave..." he growls, his hands running down the boy's back.

"'Nd lay off the van."


	10. Wanker

**Warning! This fic is naughty. If it's not your thing, sexually explicit shit, then feel free to skip it, you won't miss anything. Other than Scout and Sniper messin' around.**

Scout finds it all so _enthralling_; the sound of Sniper's regulatory breathing, the auricular expulsion of air from his nostrils hitting the drum of Scout's ear in a predictable pattern Scout times with the visuals of his rising frame.

There was no noise from outside. Scout found it all so _strange_ the way there was apparently nothing to be heard from the forest surrounding the van—then again there was also no guarantee that Sniper had even _parked_ them in a forest; Scout had no _clue_ where they were in actuality, and to be honest, knowledge of his current whereabouts interested the young man very little. Particularly in the wake of the man who lies next to him.

"Mmhn..." Sniper moans subconsciously at the explicit feel of Scout's tape wound hands gripping around his watch donned wrist, the Bostonian tugging tenderly on his arm so as to check the time.

_'Three thirty three AM. Fuckin'__weird'_

Scout blushes as Sniper lets out an exhausted sigh, shifting just enough to demonstrate his sense of groggy perception. The Australian leaves his eyes clenched shut just enough to _leave_ Scout with a question as to whether the man had been aware enough to notice his Scout _staring_ at him for the last hour.

Scout grows a blissful light headed as the watch adorned arm Scout had earlier commandeered circles itself to wrap around his frame, pulling him closer against the bare chest of the experienced huntsman.

Scout shivers pleasantly at the feel of his cool chest against his lean back, indulging in the soft contact of flesh upon flesh. How awake _was_ Sniper?! the young man twists so he now faces his man of intrigue, his bare legs smoothing against the thin linens of the Sniper's pants.

His face is relaxed, all signs and hints of strain and worry leaving nothing of themselves. In a tangential shot of his thoughts Scout can't help but wonder what it was Heinrich and Mikhail were doing. The two—a perfect couple, the role models of which Scout based his romantic fantasies, there was no way they weren't kissing and scrunched away in each other's grip.

_'Now would be the time to practice'_, Scout concludes, _'now when Jack is asleep and can't do nothin' or call me a fag_. And with the finality of approval from his conscious Scout brings his hand to Sniper's cheek, darting his eyes to the mounds in the blanket from their legs before drawing the courage to look him head on.

It takes its time, Scout's gaze, in no rush as he lets his eyes trail their way back onto the rugged profile. Scout's other arm finds its way through the comforters and his hand extends so that he may better rake it through the thickness of Sniper's deep brown hair, Scout grinning slightly as he drags a finger along his sideburns.

His legs cannot stretch anywhere without running into Sniper's incredibly lanky ones, Scout resting one on top of the older man's thigh and hip. Scooting closer, he drapes his arms and lets his fingers hook loosely around his neck, Scout's breath fanning out in the crook of it.

Sniper's hairy arm still holds Scout against him by his waist, and Scout can feel the palm of Sniper's hand clench as he squirms a little. The act elicits from the Aussie a parting of his eyelids, his pupils instantly dilating as they take on the view of the darkened camper.

"D'you ever stop movin'?!" Sniper murmurs affectionately, Scout hardly able to understand the sultry Australian mumblings in the man's muffled, tired state. "Twitchy little bugger even in your sleep, s'no wonder you're so good at capt'rin' like ya are..." Sniper smiles weakly as the sleep induced paralysis exits his body, his own smile widening at Scout's timid one.

"Didn't mean t'wake ya up, wombat..."

"S'alright—you're in a right lovin' mood, all tangled in my arms—you normally hate it when I get too close..."

"'s not true," Scout hoists his head up by his elbow and stares at the Australian. "I never hated it..."

"Well what's up, love? With all the touchin'?"

"I just—you _know_, I really am sorry 'bout yesterday'n everything—"

"I know, love, y'don't have t'worry 'bout me bein' angry at ya, 's nothin' t'lose sleep over..." Sniper mumbles before craning his head slightly and capturing Scout's lips in his briefly, rustling the boy's recently trimmed light brown hair.

"Y'gonna tell me what's with the roamin' hands, love?" Sniper asks with genuine interest, all ears for his contemplative Scout.

"You don't like it...?"

"No—'s not what I mean, just wonderin' why you're so affectionate all'o'sudden—'s not like you, Lawrence,"

"I dunno—I just noticed—this is gonna sound real fuckin' _stupid_, but—I saw my Doc'n Heavy lockin' lips'n shit, right? Totally on accident. And, well, now anytime I see'em, they're a fuckin' _romance_ factory,"

"Mm," Sniper nods, Scout taking a breath and continuing.

"I dunno, I just feel like—we ain't—we don't really, y'know, _do_ none'o that..."

"None'o what, makin' out in public? If I have t' tell ya _why_, Lawrence, I might have t'call ya a little _dense_—"

"No, just—y'know, makin' out _anywhere_!"

"Right..." Sniper mumbles gruffly, Scout watching the expression of the man as it turns into serious thoughtfulness. "I'm sure it has somethin' t'do with the fact that you always called me a fag'nd were always gay bashin' anytime I tried t'get ya t'realise you had feelin's for me..."

"Whatever..."

"I wasn't goin' t'get emotionally invested in a bloke who couldn't accept himself for who he was..."

"_Meaning_?!"

"Meanin' ya can't love other people 'til you love yourself; I always knew you were prolly the biggest _homo_ in 2Fort, love—pretty sure you knew it yourself—but what was I supposed to do with a young man who couldn't come t'terms with that fact? Bugger 'im 'nd have him hate me for it ten minutes later?!"

"Yeah, I—I guess you're right..." Scout sighs, and Sniper watches him as his mind settles on Sniper's words.

"I mean, I was always a little confused where you got the idea from that tryin' t'kiss me wasn't gay, but I went with it, I know likin' blokes can be hard t'digest..."

Scout shrugs.

"Prolly jus' so desperate for it t'not be true that you didn't know _what_ the Hell ya felt, aye?"

Sniper runs a hand down Scout's cheek and shoulder, squeezing it firmly.

"'Nd what kinda friend or whatever else would I be, allowin' someone I claim t'love t'rush into a relationship so confused like that?"

"Yeah..."

"Plus, you've never struck me as the _romantic_ type; everyone's different, love, so naturally no two relationships are the same,"

"I don't see what you're tryin' to say..."

"Well," Sniper grins before beginning his tale. "Sometimes maybe two people beat each other durin' sex. Maybe sometimes another two're always snoggin' 'nd are overly cutsey with the romance shit—sometimes relationships are arranged; sometimes relationships fall apart because dames have a tendency to look at what so'n'so got _his_ girlfriend for Valentine's Day, or took her _here_ for their anniversary—some couples don't even _remember_ theirs!"

"So what?"

"In other words, don't look at them'n feel like you have to compensate for'em, or try t'build your relationship exactly like theirs,"

"I ain't, maybe I just want to kiss you every now and then, too! 'Nd not just for sex, but because—you know..."

"Hmm,"

"What, you don't wanna kiss me?!"

"'S not _that_, and if I didn't _want_ to, then I wouldn't be sittin' here next to ya, barely clothed'nd resistin' the urge t'do so—'s just I've never been a mushy one, 'nd anytime I've _tried_, you accuse me'o bein' a pedophile, that'll stop any sort of libido a bloke'as..."

"Well, I'm tired of denying it, of beatin' around the truth, ya know? I love you, slugger, and you're my boyfriend—I ain't gonna deny it anymore..."

"Ditchin' you by yourself in the forest really did a numbah on you, eh?" Sniper chuckles, resting his hand so it cradles Scout's neck, his thumb brushing against his cheek. "You're a right _cutie_ when you blush—"

"Fuck, man, I ain't _cute_! And I ain't goin' soft, I just—" Scout shrugs. "...wanna be your boyfriend, I guess..."

"I've always hated the term _'boyfriend'_, 's what airheaded high school sheilas call the first bloke that's ever given'em attention in their lives,"

"What, boyfriend?"

"It sounds so juvenile,"

"So what else am I supposed to call ya?"

"Dunno,"

"My _maaaannnn_?!"

"Ugh—_Christ_, no—"

"I dunno," Scout mumbles.

"Agh, remember when I said I'd ruin ya? Well I was right! Blushin'n you don't have a clue what you want—'s not the Scout I know!" Sniper teases playfully, Scout's expression soft and contemplative. Sniper had never seen him so thoughtful before...

"I ain't never gonna change, wombat, but that doesn't mean I don't _want_ ya..."

"Now _I'm_ not sure where you're gettin' at, mate..."

"I know we don't usually kiss or none o'that, but—I—I fap to ya a lot," he explains heavily, Sniper's eyes widening considerably.

"You lend yourself a hand over me? 's flatterin', love," he chuckles, eyebrow raised as he observes Scout, his expression determined to better suit his strange mood.

"I—I mean, not just _to_ ya—it gets me off when I pretend it's you touchin' me," Scout whispers, and he can see Sniper tense up after this statement—though it certainly isn't from _repulsion_...

"_Really_ now...?" Sniper growls in a warm, smiling interest, his voice, Scout notices, slips into that same carnal rumble he adopts under the ecstasy of battle; the same whispers he'd hear every now and then during a mission when Sniper was landing a particularly good shot or domination.

"How long's this been goin' on?"

"A couple months after our first kiss in your van—remember? when your Scout kicked my ass? But I ain't no fag, so I wasn't gonna say nothin',"

"Not really followin' your _logic_, just 'cause it's _your_ hand pumpin' ya'n not mine, doesn't make much of a difference if the thought that makes ya all riled up is myself—as of now, you're a 'fag' whose left hand is his bugger buddy, which I don't really understand 'cause ya got a real one sittin' right next to ya—ya know, your _maaaaaan_..."

"Fuck you..."

"I mean, if you're gonna be a 'fag', might as well go all the way'n get what it is you want..."

"How was I s'pposed t'ask, man?! Hey _Jack_, will you touch my dick?!"

"Well, yeah," Sniper responds dully, Scout letting out an airy laugh of disbelief. "I certainly woulda said yes, mate,"

Scout shifts a little, his cheeks still red.

"I've been waitin' for ya to, actually—for a while I thought about just tyin' you up and just gettin' it over with..."

"You're sick, wombat!"

"Not if you want it _too_,"

"Well, when will you?"

"Come on up t'the nest sometime, love, I'll play with ya a little,"

"Why do we gotta wait 'til then, though?" Scout asks with a strain in his voice. "Why can't you do it now?"

"I mean, I—I can, if that's what you want..."

Scout nods, and Sniper swallows a little harshly, lips pursing as the sight of Scout's body only reinforces Scout's suggestion of touching him _now_.

"I don't wanna move too fast for ya..."

"I don't see how it's too fast..."

"Are you a virgin?" Sniper asks, rolling his eyes at Scout's stiffness.

"I ain't gonna make fun o'ya, I just wanna know..." Sniper assures him, Scout nodding sheepishly.

"But it ain't 'cause I couldn't get any, I just—y'know, there weren't any hot girls..."

"No lookers even in a place like Boston?" Sniper asks incredulously, shrugging nonetheless.

"...Y'sure you're up to it, love?" Sniper asks him cautiously, Scout nodding curtly.

"'Cause I'm not gonna stop when I finally got ya," he sighs, tossing the blanket off himself.

"What do you mean by that—?!"

"I won't do nothin' you don't want, I promise ya—but I also don't want you freakin' out on me if I pull your undies down,"

"I won't freak out, dude!"

"I don't wanna scare you _away_..."

"Oh gimmie a break! I ain't fuckin' _thirteen_! I'm grown and I know what I want!"

"Alright, C'mon up on my lap, love, I'll give ya somethin' sweet..." Sniper jerks his head softly, Scout absolutely petrified over the simple command.

"See, this is what I mean by you freakin' out..." the Australian growls, though it seems to have encouraged the Scout to listen, and he watches as Scout crawls closer to him.

"Right, come on up," Sniper grabs hold of his hips, pulling Scout onto his lap, who squirms in an attempt to make himself comfortable.

"Nnm," Sniper mumbles as his eyes wander to the considerably large bulge that had long since formed in the young man's briefs, the man biting down on his lip, trying not to allow the sight arouse him _too_ much.

"Guess you really are excited..."

"I don't say shit if I don't mean it," Scout snaps, hooking his arms around his neck for support.

"Don't just _stare_ at it, wombat—" Scout snaps, Sniper letting his index finger hook itself in the waistband of his briefs, a crazed smile curling along his lips. "Touch it already,"

"You gotta _savour_ it love—can't just rush somethin' like this—I wanna enjoy it..." Sniper growls.

"'s just a _handjob_..."

"Well it'll feel a lot better than one for _your_ virgin arse..."

"Literally or figuratively?"

Sniper groans at the horrible pun, though is relieved to see the jab relaxes Scout a bit.

"Alright, try to sit still..." Sniper tries to instruct, though Scout tugging at his pajama bottoms most certainly catches his attention.

"Take 'em off!" Scout beams, and Sniper rolls his eyes as he slips off the pajama trousers, leaving him in his own underpants, and now it's Scout's turn to grin viciously at the Australian's erection.

"Damn, wombat, you're packin' some heat in there!" Scout laughs raucously, his eyes curious as Sniper leans over and opens up the bedside drawer, producing a roll of duct tape—

"Hey, hey, _hey_, what the FUCK—?!"

Sniper laughs as he wrangles Scout, moaning in the Bostonian's ear as his struggling causes him to brush against his hard on, though his nimble fingers manage to tape the boy's mouth shut, the silver adhesive _gleaming_ in the natural light that draws itself inward from outside.

Scout glares furiously at the Australian, who massages the boy's erection hungrily through his briefs. Sniper grins triumphantly at the muffled but clearly _furious_ rantings of the boy who doesn't enjoy having his mouth taped shut.

"Only _you_ would talk so much that you wouldn't bloody notice a hand gropin' your cock!" Sniper booms, though he uses his other hand to catch the Bostonian who threatens to fall backwards off his lap, the pleasure both relaxing and shutting him up for a change.

"Right, right," Sniper beams, stretching more of the tape and binding the boy's wrists in one fluid motion.

Sniper exhales a shaky breath, the sight of the helpless Scout sitting on his lap, horny as all get up with what may as well be no clothing threatening to drive him _mad_.

"Alright if I take a peek?" Sniper asks the young man in a mockingly soft voice, ignoring Scout's muffled ranting, tugging on Scout's briefs.

"Mmn...would you take a _gander_ at this little beaut'," Sniper whispers as he slides the briefs from Scout's waist, his fully erect cock exposed in all its grandeur. He brings his grey eyes to Scout's, both pair narrowed, though the Bostonian's from a moody haughtiness, his Sniper's only an indication of the doom he means to reign upon him.

Scout's muffled moans grow louder as Sniper brings his lips to kiss gently upon the tip, his fingers wrapped around the thick shaft and pumping lightly, Scout's whimpers and writhing a good enough reward in the Sniper's eyes.

Sniper feels as Scout shifts so as to find a comfortable position, and It doesn't take long for Scout to feel the entirety of his manhood encased in Sniper's grip, the Australian, much to Scout's pleasure, visibly enjoying the act as much as Scout himself.

The hand jerks him just hard enough, just fast enough, and for someone who'd been out of _practice_ for fifteen years, Sniper sure did know what Scout wants...and yet he bites down tighter on his lips behind the tape, although wanting to show Sniper just how good of a job he is doing without being too noisy.

"It's alright, we're the only ones out here," he hears Sniper mutter in that same reserved mumble he typically speaks in, but it's almost sexy, as if jerking off his best friend is every day business for him. Hell, Scout would have to see to it that it will be.

"Now if you behave, I'll keep it off," Sniper growls at the attentive Scout in his lap, tugging gently at the duct tape and slipping it off his lips, Scout instantly planting his against Sniper's.

It's almost as if they don't move at all. Their lips hardly massage those of the other despite the extent of their kiss. Sniper wonders where in the world finesse must've gone as they break apart, strands of saliva the only connection to show for their actions.

But Sniper doesn't care, all he can think about are the lips of Scout as he meets them again, whose long, thin fingers curl around the base of his neck.

He smiles warmly as he feels the tips of Scout's fingers sliding along his bronzed chest, the muscles he'd gained from the Outback complimenting his build. He feels Scout grip onto his shoulder, his other hand still stroking along his front, Scout catching a glimpse of soft brown hairs that trail down below into Sniper's boxers...

Sniper calls Scout's name, the Bostonian beaming as he lets his eyes close, bringing his lips to Sniper's broad neck. the action causes the Australian to grind a bit upwards with his hips, moaning instantly at the feel of his manhood rubbing against Scout's—and suddenly the fact that his is still concealed in his underwear nearly _enrages_ him, who forgets his frustration due to a momentary jolt of inexplicable feeling that erupts throughout his body —

Scout's throaty yelps and arousing moans refuse to cease the more Sniper's hand tugs at his cock.

"'s this alright, love?"

"_Fuck_, wombat—don't stop..." he gasps, falling against Sniper's frame.

"_Shit_" Scout moans, and he feels himself dampen as Sniper takes him into his mouth, his lips wrapping around the soft tip and along the shaft, his silent and contemplative friend pleasuring him with the ease of casualty, like getting Scout off was as easy as sniping, or pissing in jars—

"You sure know what the Hell it is you're doing for not having done this in forever!" Scout hisses as Sniper's tongue slides along the underside of his erection.

"I've had a bit of time to think about it, love," Sniper responds matter-  
>of-factly before lapping his length in his warm mouth again, Scout moaning and gasping, his hands curling against his neck.<p>

His eyes tighten even more shut as he can feel the throbbing both in his head and in his _head_, and he knows from experience that his release isn't much farther now—

"Hey, what in the _fuck_, Jack?!" Scout roars as Sniper releases him, a feral grin spread across his face.

"Patience, Lawrence," Sniper rolls his eyes, and Scout scoffs and folds his arms, though he moans as his forehead falls gently against Sniper's, the older man taking both cocks into his hand.

"_Shit_—!" he moans, both of their lengths wrapped in Sniper's palm, the friction causing Scout to moan huskily from involuntary ecstasy. He lets an eye peek open, and the expression on his Sniper's face _alone_ nearly does him in, the distinct detail of Sniper's cock grinding mercilessly against his own causing an earth shattering pleasure to well within him, Sniper moaning every time their cockheads bump together—

"Y'gonna gimmie somethin' nice'n sweet for all my trouble, love?" Sniper asks him curiously, and Scout calls his name again, the muscles in his hips locking as he feels warm jets of wetness shoot from his lower body, and he can't do anything as every nerve within him burns from passionate contentment.

He sits there in Sniper's lap, heaving, his hand submerged well into the previously neatly combed hair Sniper had adjusted for himself. There were simply no words to describe it; he finally understood what there was to even understand, why so many of his comrades only had sex on the mind. Hell, that wasn't even sex, that he'd just had with Sniper, but damn, _shit_—

He catches his breath, and Scout opens his eyes blissfully, grinning at the Australian, who still holds them both in his hands, pumping viciously. The come seeping from Scout's cockhead works as lubrication; it casts a shine along Sniper's manhood, and Scout can barely watch as jets of semen erupt from the man's own large cock, Sniper massaging the sticky liquid into both of their slowly dying erections.

"...you ever see your Medic'n Heavy do that?!" Sniper chuckles darkly, panting and bringing his finger into Scout's mouth, the young man lapping up the small streaks of come with his tongue.

"I can be pretty inspirin' myself, gremlin."


	11. The Unfed Mouths

"'Course y'know, I never really saw it for what it was, growin' up," Scout sighs, his hands still clenched into the fists he'd formed at mentioning Luc, his stepfather. His head rests lazily against against the window, legs propped up casually on the dashboard, the crusted dirt chipping off his soles and smearing against the already dusted surface. The approaching mountains, visible through the windshield smudged by hours of a rainy downpour, are his visual focus, Scout somehow unable to look Sniper in the eye whilst recounting his tale.

"I thought he really _was_ just Ma's friend, y'know?! I didn't know no better, I was eight years old! If _that_!" Lawrence yelps, shaking his head. "_'Luc was just a friend, a really_**_good_**_friend—'_ that's what Ma always told us. I thought it was kinda _weird_the way they would stay holed up in my parents' bedroom for a few hours, Ma 'bout as smiley as a fuckin' _clown_ when she'd come out, ya know? Sometimes I'd catch Luc kissin'er, Ma would be gigglin', and I knew she didn't notice me starin', and like Hell I was gonna say anything, you know Jack?"

"What could y've said, love?" Jack asks understandingly, bringing his head away from the road just briefly in order to give Lawrence a quick glance over.

"I was _confused_ though! Why would Ma would be kissin' a dude other than Dad?! I figured it musta been like how relatives you ain't seen in a long ass time kiss and hug ya, but he started comin' over more and more, the trips longer and longer; 'specially on the afternoons'n evenings when Dad wasn't there—Ma knew I noticed.

So I _asked_, y'know—who was this guy, 'nd why did he talk funny? Why was she kissin'im and what did he want from us? She told me it was a _surprise_ they were workin' on for Dad, and that was why he was always around whenever Dad wasn't, so that they could work on it together without drawin' his attention to whatever _it_ was. _'Don't tell your father about the surprise or Luc,'_ Ma warned me—shit, I _still_ remember standin' in the hall near the livin' room when she told me this—_'You don't wanna spoil it for your father now, do ya...?'_"

"Hmm," Jack tuts, eyebrows raised. "'S definitely 'n excuse outta yer kid's questions, eh?"

"Anyway I was _real_ close with my Dad—my other brothers were too old for the babyin', so he bonded with me, y'know? I was the baby, Ma was always there for me too but she was too busy with my brothers and _Luc_, so it was just me'n Dad, really. So when Ma mentioned there bein' a surprise for'im, well, _shit_ I wanted in on it too! I wanted in on a part'o this, whatever_this_ was—but _nah_, it was for 'grown ups', Ma said, that only her and Luc could know.

Whatever Ma told me I believed—she'n Dad had always told me liars'n lies were the worst, that nothin' good came from'em and nothin' good came from tellin'em. Luc was always nice and warm, too. He would grip me like a son and tell me he was sure Dad would enjoy it when it came down to it. Well that was all I needed to hear, you know?" Scout chuckles disbelievingly, lowering himself in his seat and loosening the seatbelt's clench around his throat. "There was _no_ way two adults would lie to me, right?! Or that's how the eight year old me saw it. Man, I was fuckin' _stupid_..."

"'Nd what eight year old isn't, Scout," Jack sneers, Lawrence shrugging before continuing.

"Either way I was _hurt_ that they wouldn't let me in on it, 'cause I wanted to be a part'o whatever it was that would make Dad happy too. So eventually I started _snoopin'_, followin'em back into the bedroom or whatever, pressin' ears against the door tryin' to hear whatever I could.

Now if there's one thing I was good at, it was bein' a nosy ass little shit—I was hard to shake off—that was until Luc got smart'n started bringin' me gifts with his visits. What eight year old kid would wanna follow adults around when he got a shiny new ball or catcher's mitt? My brothers weren't gettin' nothin', so I'd be too busy runnin' around the house showin' my gifts off while Ma and Luc went back to their _business_; their planned fuckin' _worked_,"

"'Nd what about your brothers, love? Where were they?!"

"I mean, you gotta see it this way, Jack: my oldest brother, Alexander, right? He was born in _1930_,"

"Jeeze, older 'n me even..." Jack mumbles.

"And Ma had Will and Roy - my twin brothers - in _1937_. And she had three other boys before _then_. I didn't show up 'til '43, so my bros were _way_ too old to be playin' with me all the time. I mean don't get me wrong, Snipes, they were assholes but they're still the best brothers a dude could ever have. When they weren't too busy they spent time with me or whatever, but they were at school and stuff, I was home alone..."

"Aye..."

"So it went on like that for a while; I'd come home from school before everyone else'nd Luc would be there, but only when Dad wasn't, 'nd he'd give me a baseball card, or a few cents to go see a movie or feed some ducks—I love ducks, man...anything to get me outta the way. My oldest brothers were in high school, so they were never really home to notice. The other three didn't really give a shit 'til I started gettin' gifts...

Sometimes we'd go play ball, me and Will, Paul'n Roy—come home from school, eat lunch, then _ditch_! Now the house was ideal for Ma'nd Luc—nice'n empty. So 'cause of that they started gettin' carless, and that's where they fucked up,"

"'S that mean?"

"Well, it was near the beginning of the summer 'n' the others went down to the diamond for a game. I don't remember what the fuck I was doin', but I guess I was in my room, right? Ma 'n' Luc were in the bedroom, and I was itchin' to try and sneek another peek at that fuckin' surprise, but I didn't—but I did hear the front door open, and I froze, 'cause I didn't wanna catch Dad's attention in the back near the bedrooms, 'cause then he might wander into _his_ room and spoil the surprise. Now here's were shit gets real," Scout takes a deep breath, casting a glance at the attentive Sniper, who takes his eyes from the road for just a second to exchange glances with Scout.

"Next thing I heard was Dad _roarin'_! I heard doors slammin' and I couldn't believe it when he started _cursin'_—they must not'a known I was home, 'cause Ma and Dad _never_ cursed in front of us! But he was, he was callin' Ma a whore, a _bitch_, and I was sittin' in my room _frozen_ scared as Hell 'cause Dad was furious!

I thought it was weird, 'cause Ma and Dad had always raised me to be courteous, to always accept gifts graciously even if I didn't like'em. I couldn't believe Dad was goin' back on his own words like that, cursin'nd upset over his surprise!

So I stuck my head out the door'n the first thing I see is Luc's naked ass tearin' through the kitchen tryin' to put his fuckin' pants on, Ma is cryin' with a sheet around her'n her make up was runnin', 'nd Dad called her a slut'nd said fuck her, fuck _us_, that we could all rot in Hell'n suck his cock. The door slammed'n I heard tires screech, 'n Ma was still cryin', 'nd I never saw Dad again,"

"_WHAT_?"

"That was it! Dad never _did_ come back! Now keep in mind with nine of us shit was never easy, but we had great, loving parents, a roof, we could eat—when Dad left, we lost everything; the car, the apartment—dad wasn't payin' for us so we ended up havin' to move to a fucked up flat in a neighbourhood called Springfield—that apartment was ghetto as Hell!"

"Pardon the interruption, Lawrence, but d'you really mean that your Pop ran out on you'n your brothers when he caught your Mum messin' around?"

"Yeah, fuckin' Luc—"

"Now hold on, Love, I agree Luc is at fault here—'n you prolly don't wanna hear this 'bout your Dad, but no man worth the tears would _ever_ leave his sons behind without contact or support—financial or otherwise!" Sniper snaps, Scout's facial muscles strained as if convincing himself that Sniper was wrong required physical determination.

Sniper massages his shoulder sympathetically as Scout sits speechless, the boy taking his feet from the dashboard and turning away from him to stare full on out the passenger side window.

"Sorry, love," Sniper whispers, Scout shaking his head.

"Nah, man—you're right," Scout chokes, Sniper biting down on his lower lip cautiously.

"Tell me more 'bout what happened when you moved 'cross town,"

"...it didn't take long for me to catch on that my Dad wasn't comin' back; I had no idea what happened at the time, but with each week where Dad didn't call, or our meals were fuckin' onion soup with warm ass tap water that had brown shit swirlin' in it— Lookin' back on it my brothers took it well—or maybe they just had different ways of showin' it? Either way, I knew my Dad leavin' was tied to Luc, to his fuckin' _surprise_, and I knew what sex was, and it was only a matter of time 'til I finally put it all to-fuckin'-_gether_.

Shit went down hill real fast. We were all shoved in a three bedroom in the worst part of Boston with no car and—_shit_, no nothin'! Ma was obviously stressed—with just her supportin' us it got to her real fast too. Luc still came over, 'nd she said he was _here_ for us..."

"Right," Jack scoffs.

"Well I wasn't fuckin' havin' it. My bros knew somethin' was wrong, 'cause I started gettin' real aggressive, I was gettin' into fights, breakin' shit when I got angry. I was yellin' 'nd screamin', 'nd Luc started comin' by more often, 'nd my behaviour went down from there. I wouldn't listen to him or respect him, nothin'—fucker would try to ask me how school went, how were my friends, tried warmin' up to me, gettin' to _know_ me, but I told him flat out, as an eight year old, to fuck off back to France, that he was a liar, that he destroyed my life; the beatin' I got that night from Ma left bruises I swear didn't disappear 'til I was sixteen—and Ma didn't even start cursin' or beatin' us 'til after Dad left. Like I said, shit just _changed_. Even my brothers were terrified o' that fuckin' paddle,"

"Heh,"

"Then Luc fuckin' moved _in_.

As if the fuckin' asshole hadn't already ruined everything! Woulda been different if he picked up the slack, if he was actually helpin' us out—he saw me and my brothers _starvin'_, he saw Ma strugglin' with rent and lights—she worked as a cashier at a fuckin' grocery store, barely makin' enough to keep the fuckin' _lights_. We had no idea what he did for a livin'—'course now I know it's 'cause he's a fuckin'_spy_, but back then it didn't make no sense that his creepy ass was flyin' back to France'nd then other places without tellin' us _why_.

Ma wasn't too worked up about it 'cause Frenchie was buyin' her pearls'nd flyin' her to Europe—leavin' my oldest brother Alex behind to take care of us the weeks they'd run away to fuckin' _Venice_—"

"Bloody _disgustin'_, love..."

"But pearls weren't feedin' no mouths, 'nd vacations weren't payin' no fuckin' _rent_. Alex was twenty one, barely graduated high school three years ago. He didn't have no plans to go to college, so he stepped up as man of the house, 'cause Luc sure wasn't doin' shit—got a job at a gas station'nd did the best he could to help Ma out.

On top o'all that Luc started singlin' me out; my other brothers didn't seem as bothered by him as I was. Sure, they weren't callin'im _Dad_ or nothin', but everyone in that fuckin' apartment knew that one day it would come down to me or him. I wasn't holdin' back. I'd called him every name in the book, I wouldn't listen to him, pretty much I was only heard screamin' my throat dry 'cause I would just get so damn _mad_.

Luc convinced Ma that I needed to see a psychologist, that I wasn't _right_—nine years-_fuckin'_old and I was goin' to therapy. I went to those damn sessions too, but Luc sure as Hell wasn't payin' for it. Alex had to cover the costs—imagine bein' my age'nd on top of everything else you're watching your brother slave himself away so he can pay for some fat _bitch_ to tell a nine year old he's mentally unstable! I knew the only way to make it stop would be to acknowledge Luc, but I'd smartened up; Instead of pretending he didn't exist, I'd avoid all the places he _did_.

So after school, me, Paul, Will, Roy'n Christopher would head down to the diamond. Me'n the first three were middle schoolers—got good grades, did homework, so it wasn't like we were skippin'. Alex had work, and Anthony, he never had time to play, he was so fuckin' smart, and he had to study a lot 'cause of these science courses. But shit, my brothers would take me outta the house'nd we'd stay out all day 'til the first streetlights came on—that was our curfew.

But the older we all got, well, it was time for'em to go. Christopher'nd Anthony both ended up gettin' scholarships to some alright places. It helped not havin' to take care of those two, but shit was still rough. Alex was still workin', 'nd so was Ma, 'nd I was 15, Paul was 23 and Will'n Roy were twins, both 21.

Now High School, I couldn't go play no more; grades were always important to me, doin' well—so I was always home, 'nd Luc would use me as his fuckin' bitch 'cause Ma wasn't around. He started beatin' me, for no reason—"

"_WHAT?!_ Bloody tosser was puttin'is _hands_ on ya—?!"

"Oh, yeah! I was shocked it wasn't happenin' sooner! I wasn't no nine year old, I was growin' up—I had muscles, 'nd I wasn't afraid to take'im on, either. Some nights he'd just come into my room'nd _wail_ on me. Call me all sorts 'o shit, sayin' it's for underminin'im in his own house, for bein' a disrespectful little shit. I didn't do nothin' though, 'cause I didn't want Ma to worry, or for Luc to try and turn it on me, call the police'n get me put away for domestic violence or whatever shit he could work up. I sure as Hell wasn't goin' back to _therapy_.

So I took the beatings, he wrecked me—told Ma it was from baseball'n boxing—I was tryin' out for both teams, so it calmed'er down, 'nd I wouldn't cry or squeal or nothin'—Luc would get me 'n he'd have his fist in my hair, but I'd smile those bloody ass smiles, I wasn't crackin'. It hurt like Hell, _every_ time, but he wasn't gonna break me completely,"

"Bugger me, Lawrence," Sniper sighs, knuckles white against the steering wheel. "I swear I'll rip'is bloody _head_ off—"

"Heyo, Snipes, don't get mad, s'alright, I dealt with it," Scout soothes him, bringing a hand to slide across his thigh.

He grumbles, bringing his gaze back to the road.

"So it went on like this 'til my senior year. I ended up graduatin' with all A's and B's. I was a good student, sure, but I wasn't like Anthony, engineerin' in his sleep, so I didn't get no scholarships. It was me, Luc, Ma, 'nd Alex all still together in that flat. The others'd moved out, gotten lives of their own, ya know? But I wanted to be there for Ma. Sure, she isn't no old bat, but I wasn't gonna leave her alone.

I wanted to get out, get away from Luc, go to college—Christopher and Anthony came back from college so fuckin' _classy_, like they'd had a good time. I wanted to know how it felt, too, y'know? But I knew it wasn't gonna happen. So I started searchin' for jobs, 'cause Luc was sittin' back eatin' shit, callin' me a bum, hittin' me, sayin' I was the most worthless of all Ma's sons—then fuckin' bastard said the wrong shit one morning—fuckin' said it was good Dad walked out on us, that he didn't have to see his _precious Lawrence_ grow up to be a pile o' shit—"

"Oh, Lawrence—"

"I lost it—I fuckin' _lost_ it—beat the shit outta the fucker—Ma came home from work, the walls were bloody'n my hands were stained, and I had the craziest fuckin' smile you could ever imagine. Beat'im so bad you couldn't even see his face for a month—'s just what Alex told me, I wouldn't know—got my ass arrested for it that night—Ma called the cops, hysterical.

Alex'nd Will went down to the station that night to see me. Shit, they almost seemed _proud_, Jack. Said Ma was fuckin' goin' crazy, but that I went out with a bang. They told our other bros—I got short little telephone calls with'em, five minutes each. Whatever. Ended up bein' sentenced to more fuckin' _therapy_. Only went once, though,"

"What?! How did you manage to avoid it?!"

"Went into the military, slugger, the only place where it didn't matter who you were 'slong as you were cool with dyin' at any given point. Builders League United came recruitin' one day at the end of the session. Said they were wilin' to wash my record clean if I gave 'em a minimum of five years of service. Obviously I accepted,"

"So then you weren't in it for the dramatic payback 'gainst Luc?"

"I fucked him up enough for a lifetime, dude doesn't even come _near_ me on the battlefield. I didn't need no more o'that. Like I said, I had no idea what he did for a livin'—none of us did—until I ran into'im in combat,"

"_Shit_, love..."

"'Course 'til then I'd only known him with the mask off...but I knew that voice, that fuckin' figure, 'nd he said my name, and I tore so fuckin' _fast_ outta there..." Scout smirks, looking at his hands.

"But he told Ma, 'nd she almost lost her marbles again, knowin' that me'n him were squarin' off 'nd that her little boy was killin' over fuckin' territorial control. Sometimes I dunno _what_ to think; she'll cry about how much she misses me then say she doesn't wanna see 'cause of everything I've done...So yeah..." Scout smiles smally, nodding in finality. "Then when he actually _approached_ me yesterday mornin', tellin' me to fuckin' _behave_ 'nd callin' me a faggot—yeah, I was a little pissed..."

But Scout falls silent as he notices the van is stationary, parked on the side of the highway, Sniper extending his arms to pull Scout within them.

They sit silent and unmoving in the heartfelt embrace, Scout nuzzling into the crook of Sniper's neck, the older man running an affectionate hand down his back.

"I owe you 'n apology, love..."

"Nah, Jack, that's why I told you, you know?" Scout smiles smally at the man. "It ain't your fault. I got mad at you when you didn't even know the truth. It wasn't fair,"

"Well, now I know..." Sniper grumbles, bringing Scout closer against him. "'Nd we'll make sure Luc knows it too."


	12. The Biology of Things Part One

Scout can't determine just why it is he closes his eyes, whether the tight clench in which he holds his eyelids is the cause or effect of his monumental sense of pleasure. Either way, the young man spares a second and a smidgeon of his physical energy in favor of a slight jerk of his head to the left; thankfully for him Sniper is still asleep and nestled by his side, and, as far as Scout can tell, inattentive in the midst of his slumber.

Scout freezes in place, the lanky legs of the man next to him shifting just barely, kicking into Scout's thighs and causing the mattress to dip under their frames. The lust induced colour drains from Scout's face in a startling realization that it would be most awkward to be caught coddling such an activity. Scout loosens his grip on his tempestuous erection for just a second, taking another peek at the man who seems to still sleep undisturbed like before.

As a matter of fact, yes; there was nothing else Sniper could be, his mouth slightly agape, snoring lightly into his pillow. His body is askew and stretching across the plane of the bed (as was typical for him in his sleep). Scout had nothing to fear.

At least for now.

And so Scout continues with his enthusiastic stroking of himself, continues the arousal of his physical senses. He makes sure that his subsequent moans are stifled, that they are subtle. He sees to it their timbre is of the lowest decibel, nothing beyond a small gasp; anything requiring a more strenuous pull upon his oral dedication would certainly wake Jack.

Though Scout finds that the more powerful the preceding signs of eruption becomes, the all more impossible it becomes to smother his longing calls and throaty groans. It doesn't help that the violent jerks and their sideways orientation are also no longer enough to satisfy him, enough to stifle his exhilaration—and so Scout's body demands silently for more, and that he does whatever 'more' is, and namely harder, with fewer seconds in between each tug—

And so Scout heeds the pleading of his inner workings. He obeys the lure of his biology in hopes that the euphoria within him is to be a full fledged experience and not just a flare of horny delusion.

Though in his attempt to near the pleasure he literally strokes out of his own body, he loses his ability to bridle it all and instead adopts a blatant disregard for intimacy and the privacy it often requires. He gasps and jerks about as a high staggers within him, his actions growing quite loud, without reservation.

Scout's shaking fist around his length attempts to milk the last drops of his release from within him, though in his spent and weakened state, the motion is nothing short of pathetic.

God damn, it always felt so good.

Scout sighs, very much pleased with himself. Tucking his arms behind his head, he falls back against the pillow. The thin sheets are tangled in between his legs, wet due to the influence and aftermath of masturbation.

"Shit," Scout sighs, stretching out, a distinct stickiness in his inner thigh catching his attention, though only briefly. "Shit, that was nice…" he exhales again, shooting another quick look at Sniper. Still asleep.

"Fuckin' gross, though—" And Scout slides from the sheets, his feet touching the floor of the camper. Scratching his lower back, he makes a blind trek for the bathroom to wash himself up. He was never fond of the closure of sex or any of its related doings (unless Sniper was involved—though that is most certainly a different story for a different time).

Scout grimaces as his thighs stick together, the quickly drying semen that stains them working as a repulsive adhesive along his flesh.

He certainly wastes no time in washing himself up. Lathering his hands with soap, Scout takes care of the remains of his business—his eyes are even still lidded from that same transient high, according to the reflection Scout sees in the spotless mirror (Sniper was very cleanly). He would change his underpants before slipping back into bed again, he plans, and with a smirk at the young man in the mirror, he turns to head back to the sleeping room—

"Y'GOTTA BE BLOODY KIDDIN' ME—!"

_'Shit.'_

Scout flinches and hides behind the bathroom door, the enraged grumblings of his Sniper audible in the sleeping room. It would only be a matter of time before the man would begin his search for the Bostonian, the very same Bostonian who is assuredly the cause of his late night aggravation.

Scout bites down on his lip as the displacement of Sniper's stomp upon the floor hints at his approach. In a fit of bravery on Scout's behalf, he pulls the door back, smiling nervously at the sleep shaken man who stands in the door way.

"What are ya, a bloody twelve year old who still can't control his damn—"

"Sorry," Scout interrupts him quickly, though the half assed, hasty apology doesn't seem to have changed the course of Sniper's rant.

"In—my—bloody—bed—?!" he snaps, tossing Scout the cum stained sheets, absolutely fuming.

Scout catches them, disgusted with the moist texture and its feel against his sweaty frame.

"Didn't your bloody Mum teach ya that it's rude t'bloody wank in another bloke's bed?!"

"S—sorry, I tried bein' quiet—"

"_You, quiet_…" Sniper scoffs, and Scout lowers his gaze to the floor.

"Sorry…"

"Sorry?! 'S that all you can say?!"

Scout opens his mouth to apologise again, but quickly decides against it.

"Look, I said I tried to do it without wakin' ya up—!"

"It wasn't the noise that was the problem— try rollin' over'n getting' a surprise mouth full o'your splooge!"

"Ew, man—"

"Ew is bloody right! You pull that shit again'nd I'm tossin' your arse outside—infectin' the van— "

"Oh what the fuck ever, you act like you don't have jars of your own fuckin' pee just sittin' around!"

"Jarate aside, all I'm sayin' is we're only on leave a week, 'nd you can't even wait until you're back in your own bloody bed t'jerk it! Fuckin' disgustin'—I'm not tryin' t'sleep in a sea o'your jizz, mate—what, y'got somethin' t'say?!" Sniper snaps, for Scout's dirty glare and mumbled response certainly did not go unnoticed.

"Just that you didn't seem t'have a problem swallowin' my cum when my fuckin' junk was in your mouth a few nights ago—"

Scout smirks as the Australian staggers just slightly in his expression and demeanor.

"'S one thing if I get t'join in on the fun, love; I mean, y'didn't even wake me up t'ask if I maybe wanted t'give ya a hand!" Sniper tisks and Scout turns a bright red at his comment.

"W—what—?"

"You heard me! You got some nerve, cummin' on my matress'nd blankets, soakin' the only place I got to sleep in your bloody man milk, 'nd I don't even get any enjoyment out of it!"

"W—what are you tryin' to say—?"

"You really must be twelve, love—_why didn't you let me jerk ya_?!"

Scout's eyes widen at the question, the fierceness and the legitimate mystery in his voice very much unexpected on Scout's end. Sniper's lips curl into a smile at Scout's flustered confusion, eyebrows raised to further emphasise his inquiry.

"You're seriously askin' me why I didn't ask you to jerk me off—?"

"More or less, yeah—or did ya not like it when—y'know, the other night…"

"What? Oh—no, no, I—I liked it…" Scout responds with care, wary to see just where it was Sniper intended to take this particular conversation. Hell, it certainly seems to have taken the angered edge out of him…

'_Why is he lookin' at me like that_…?'

"Nah, I really liked it, but—I dunno,"

"Dunno what?!"

"Pssht—fuck, Jack, I dunno!" Scout huffs irritably, a morsel of guilt creeping within him as Sniper eyes him sympathetically, a bit takenaback by Scout's sudden shortness. "If I knew I'd fuckin' say it—" Scout brushes past him, eyes narrowed, head shaking softly.

Scout pulls a fitted sheet from a drawer in Sniper's sleeping room, breathing moodily as he fits it carefully around the corners of the mattress. Sniper seems to be in no rush to further find himself in the company of the agitated American, and thus busies himself in the kitchenette—though with what exactly Scout does not know.

'_How in the fuck're you gonna get mad at me 'nd just—ugh—_'

Scout shakes his head, slamming his fist against the mattress, spreading the light sheets over it evenly.

'_You throw your fuckin' pee on people—can't say fuckin' shit about nasty—sorry if I maybe rub one off in the same bed as my own boyfriend—_'

Fluffing the pillows and slipping on fresh underwear, Scout shuffles himself comfortably underneath the covers, letting his body hit the bed, face puckered in sour moodiness. His eyes waver about the black room, everything cast in rich shades of either midnight blue or a pale white.

'_It wasn't even that big of a fuckin' deal, you didn't have to get all pissed off at me—it ain't like you can't clean the shit off—and it sure as Hell ain't like you don't like it…'_

Scout rolls over, staring at the relatively low ceiling, the rustles of the forest and its nightly activities noticeable now that his hormones no longer deafen his senses.

'_Jeeze, no wonder the dude ain't married—you're stuck with'im a week'nd he bitches the whole time…_'

Scout pulls the sheets above his head.

'_Like a naggin' old hag_'

Scout further fortifies his internal sense of innocence with silent snippets of self righteous mental monologues such as these. He pretends to neither notice nor care when the mattress dips and Sniper's sighing frame settles against it. Sniper has no need for any obvious signs of reaction from him however, for as he smoothes his broad palms over Scout's bare shoulder and down his arm, he can feel Scout lessen the tension that tightens the whole of his frame.

"Wos wrong?" Sniper chuckles softly, smirking down at the young man he caresses sympathetically. "Hm? Did I hurt your feelin's?"

Scout clenches his eyes shut even when Sniper leans over him, grazing his hands along his body and kissing his cheek. Though he finds it grows harder both in execution and resolve as the gentle stroking shows no signs of ceasing. Scout remains silent.

"I'm sorry if I crossed ya, love—was just a little peeved that you were all riled up'nd didn't think t'ask me t'help you take care o'your little issue—that 'nd, y'know, ya stained the sheets,"

"Look, it ain't always gotta be some personal thing, alright? Next time I gotta—whatever—I'll ask if you wanna help…"

"Oi, y'mean that, or are ya jus' tryin' to shut me up?" Sniper chuckles in Scout's ear, the tips of his fingers dragging affectionately across his cheek.

"Dude, whatever; I'm just tryin' to sleep…" Scout snaps, but curls against Sniper nonetheless.

"Sure, I was jus' tryin' t'sleep too, but when you're woken up unexpectedly—" Scout places the palm of his hand to hush him, rolling his eyes as he retreats into the comfort of both the embrace and bed.

"What were y'even thinkin' about t'get ya all wound up?" Sniper smirks, laughing softly at Scout's reddening face and the nervous tug of his teeth against his bottom lip. "'Nd why d'you keep forgettin' that any fantasy o'yours I'll—"

Scout shushes him again, and Sniper acts upon his lover's cue, leaving it at that.

-

"Aw, 'S'alright, love," Sniper whispers in Scout's ear, kissing his temple and running a hand along his arm.

Scout sighs and shrugs slightly, his fingers still curled around the crushed photo whose corners dig small incisions into his sweating palms.

Scout puts up no resistance to Sniper unfurling his lightly clenched fingers. His eyes still remain firm in their intensive bore on the linens that surround them in drowsy uniform, his other hand curling in the against the strands of fabric.

"So you ain't mad?"

It was rare for Scout to sit in such spells of hesitancy, waiting for Sniper to nod whatever Scout's sin of the time was off carelessly, settling his mind free of moral obligation and retrospect. Reliant on the wave of his hand, Scout says nothing, awaiting a sign of validation from the Australian.

_'What was there to be mad about?'_

"Well—I'm—I'm just glad you had the courtesy t'use a sock this time!"

Scout whitens at Sniper's chuckle; the colour that fills his flushed cheeks actually drains from his strained features at Sniper's comment, and the Australian clears his throat in silent apology.

"So I didn't get a face full o'your man milk t'wake me up this time—'course this whole discretion thing ain't exactly your forte, you're still a noisy little bugger if you're gettin' your willy tugged jus' right—I mean, you've always been a bit of a moaner in those situations, so it's no shock ya woke me again—"

Scout groans, shaking his head in sluggish disbelief.

_'Maybe I shouldn't've put it quite like that'_

Sniper grabs Scout's bare hand, unbandaged and moist with the sweat of the young man's dull worry.

"Mnh? Wos wrong, love? I don't understand what it is that's got ya so wound up—" Sniper attempts to joke lightly, patting him still, though on his cover draped thigh.

"I mean—'s not that big o'deal! I know I might've gone off on ya for it a few days ago, but I get it—every man has his needs—so I don't understand what all the worryin' 's'about; don' tell me your mum never explained to ya why ya got hard every now'n then once you hit puberty!"

Scout raises his eyebrows, silent nonetheless. Sniper simply grunts again, taking Scout's crumpled photo in hand and unraveling it gently.

"Oh!" Sniper gasps lightly from subdued surprise, eyebrows raised as he surveys the laminated, semen encrusted card.

"She's—she's a looker, eh?" Sniper chuckles lightly, but it takes very little time for his attempt at humour to taper off; both from his own inability to maintain it, and also at Scout's unamused, queasy expression.

"Well, can't fault ya for jerkin' one over her; she's a beaut'," Sniper resigns, staring with deep intrigue at the rosy pin up girl. Red hair pulled back tight against her flawless profile in springy pin curls, the red of her cheeks does little to mask her pale complexion.

Her undone bra flutters from her chest, (being a lady of modesty, Sniper presumes, she goes to grab it) though Sniper can still see she conceals very nicely sized breasts behind the loosened garment. The garterbelt disappears well into her nightdress, aligned perfectly against her thigh—and those eyes, grey and wide with meek shock, they'd drive any man that looked too deeply into them mad...

The way they are plastered on you and only you, the way they seem to glow with abashed shock and yet a longing for her audience to further explore her flustered condition, Sniper has to admit, wraps up the scene in a very arousing display.

"I can see why she got ya all bothered, mate—she has a look on'er that could convince any man she wants'im—" Sniper sighs, giving the photo a final nod, though he chuckles lightly as he faces Scout's takenaback and instinctively jealous glare.

"C'mon, I don't think I hav' t'tell ya you're a beaut' too, Lawrence—"

"Dude, don't you ever call me a fuckin' _'beaut'_ again!" Scout snaps, though Sniper smirks as Scout's expression softens, for Sniper reassuring him that he too was just as _enchanting_ does much to calm his pending rise.

"Oi, you shouldn't be the offended one, I'm the one sittin' here pretty much bein' told that I'm unattractive!" Sniper gasps in mock hurt, Scout leaning forward quickly.

"That ain't true, Jack!"

"I'm apparently not even jerk worthy—completely forget y'haven't wanted any lovin' from me in three days—"

"Nah, Jack, it—it's not like that—!"

"Calm down, calm down, I'm just messin' with ya..." Sniper sighs, bringing an arm around Scout's shoulder.

"All jokes, love..."

"You know I love you, right?!"

If Sniper hadn't been listening he never would have caught Scout's hasty question. Placing the photo onto the bed, Sniper rubs his eyes and gives Scout his full attention.

"Come again?"

"I—I mean—I'm still attracted to ya'n junk, so don't—don't worry or nothin'..."

"Worry about what, love?"

"That I don't wanna be with ya no more,"

"Why in the world would I worry about somethin' like that?!" Sniper asks nervously, a bit apprehensive about rushing into the answer—though it wasn't like he could expect an answer; Scout had been reducing any he'd given to vague shrugs and shaken sighs all night.

"I mean, you're right—I—I haven't been payin' attention to you..."

"Scout, 're ya bloody kiddin' me?! I'm not some insecure teenage girl beggin' for the validation, love; I don't _need_ attention like you do—"

"Like I _do_—?!"

"I'm used t'bein' out in the Bush by myself for months, even years at a time, 's far away from civilisation as possible—"

"Yeah, but you ain't out in the fuckin' bushes no more, and I know you're lyin' if you don't think you like company—"

"I can't bloody _stand 'company'_—"

"You like _my_ company—"

"'S 'cause you're one o'the few people on this Earth I can actually stand—Hell, I'd even go as far t'say I _like_ ya!"

"'Nd I know you must be feelin' like shit 'cause I haven't been fuckin' ya—"

"What?! I—I'm not some sex fiend, Scout! I can handle it when you maybe—I dunno—_want_ somethin' else—"

"What do you mean, _'Want something else'?!_

"I can handle that maybe you just aren't in the mood, I suppose—I mean, I know you love me, 'nd our sex is nice, but—"

"So then you wouldn't even care if I fuckin'—just up and _slept_ with some other dude?!"

"Oi, I didn't say that, mate," Sniper corrects quickly and darkly.

"I don't care if you _up and slept_ with your bloody bat, I'd be devastated, love! But there's a difference between me givin' ya the ok to see other people 'nd you jerkin' it over some 2D hussy; you're so horny when you've got a hard on like that you'll wank over anything that looks at ya that way,"

"You're nuts—"

"No, I'm just not the jealous type," Sniper sighs, lighting a cigarette.

_'Or at least I do a good job hidin' it'_

"'Nd yet you just admitted to bein' jealous of a fuckin' _baseball bat_—"

"Oi, I don' like the way you hold it, seems like much more than friendship to me—" Sniper mockingly growls in a low voice.

"For real, dude, I'm bein' serious! I'm comin' at ya with how I feel, 'nd you're getting' jealous over my fuckin' bat, and you're just not takin' me seriously!"

"Listen, Scout, I can handle the fact that there're other things that get ya goin', if you follow me—I'm not callin' a marriage counselor over a picture of a pin up girl soaked in your cum,"

"Dude, that's nasty,"

"Just sayin', 's how it was when ya woke me from my sleep..."

"So—so then you're not mad that I—you know—over someone else?"

"Look, d'you _want_ me t'start cryin' 'nd tell you we're through?!" Sniper roars, clearly growing frustrated.

"Jack, no! I'm just makin' sure so that you don't try usin' this shit against me in three weeks, cryin' 'nd sayin' I don't wanna be with you no more—"

"I mean, seriously love, I'm a grown man, I know you've got _hormones_! You're gonna find other people attractive, it's perfectly natural! If you were obsessed with me I'd tell ya to quit actin' like you're still in bloody junior high school—"

"But, ain't I technically obsessed—?!"

"You're in love with me; there's a world o'difference, Scout..."

"I guess, but—"

"You're in love with me; if you were _obsessed_ you'd be sniffin' my underoos 'nd askin' me why I didn't call ya last night—"

"What in the fuck're you talkin' about, Jack?"

"Hell if I know; But look, unless you've been messin' around, it's alright,"

"Alright?"

"I mean—'course it's always nice t'know your boyfriend wants ya'nd often has a hard time containin' that want if you catch my drift, but like I said, you're goin' t'be attracted to other people, 'nd I'm alright with that—unless—y'know—"

"Yeah—nah, Jack, I'd never, never—"

"'Cause I'm afraid I wouldn't let anyone jus' come'nd sweep ya up, love..."

Scout sighs, drilling the tips of his fingers into the blankets, dog tags skewed around his neck, his naked body warm and flushed.

"Alright?" Sniper asks him quietly, the young man sighing heavily, nodding seconds later.

"Alright," Sniper hooks his hand behind Scout's neck, giving him a quick kiss.

"C'mon, let's go sit outside—don't like smokin' in the van."

Sniper retrieves his brown slacks from the bedside, sliding and clothing his lanky legs, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Slipping a wife beater across his toned chest, he smiles at Scout, who also busies himself with dressing.

He freezes momentarily as Sniper's broad hand massages his bare back, Scout relaxing instantly into the gesture. His shoulders undulate as Sniper squeezes them remedially, and instantly Scout's face loosens, stress noticeably seeping from his otherwise youthful skin.

"C'mon," Sniper jerks his head, running a quick hand across Scout's cheek and making for the wilderness outside.

-

"Gotta admit; 's nothin' quite like a natural night in the outdoors—that forest air—gets ya settled like there wasn't even a problem to begin with, no?" Sniper begins quietly, back against the chilled steel of the camper's exterior.

"Even if you aren't all that big o'fan of the wilderness."

Scout shrugs, eyes watering as habitual sleepiness settles into his system. The weight of his bottom sways and settles warmly against the solid, light earth of the forest floor, the soil encompassing his senses like a natural blanket.

"'S'alright, I guess; still don't know why you always gotta park so deep in the trees," Scout grumbles, sitting up despite his lethargy.

"Well if you prefer I stayed parked on the side of the road where any creeper can stop and prowl on us—!"

"Better than fuckin' bears!"

Sniper rolls his eyes, extinguishing his cigarette and flicking the butt moodily.

"Guess you never went campin', eh?"

"Like Luc ever took us fuckin' _camping_—"

"Prolly 'cause your ungrateful arse never showed interest in goin' in the first place! He prolly didn't find it t'be worth the effort gettin' ya outta _your_ slump to try 'nd bother with ya!"

Scout shifts moodily, both in an effort to stop himself from dragging on the Luc discussion as well as conceal his silent resignation that Sniper's claims were correct.

"I mean, he took me once, but—Seriously, try bein' eleven 'nd goin' fishin' with the guy 'nd havin' his frenchie ass losin' ya in a fuckin' forest for eight hours while you an't got no food!"

"Eleven's just a _tad_ too old t'be gettin' lost from Mummy and Daddy, love," Sniper smirks.

Scout shoots him a dirty look, but finds that as he goes to challenge Sniper his eyes are already engaged behind their closed lids, face pointed in the direction of the stars so ask to soak in the moon's natural shine.

"Fuck you." Scout settles with instead.

Crossing his arms and scowling as Sniper simply responds with another light chuckle, Scout's twisted face does a job to convey his residual moodiness, even as he lets the subject go.

_'Shit ain't gonna be funny when a fuckin' bear eats us'_

"So what's got ya all torn up, love?" Sniper mumbles, patting Scout on the knee and quickly falling back into his comfortable lean.

"Honestly, there's really somethin' eatin' away at ya—I can sense it,"

Scout debates on his answer—or whether or not he even _was_ to answer—chewing on his bottom lip and surveying Sniper's snoozing frame all the while. It isn't until Sniper's "Hm?" a good thirty seconds later that Scout is startled out of his dazed, unintentional stare and admiration of the rugged Australian.

"I dunno," is all Scout can be bothered to muster up after a minute's pondering, Sniper however unphased by Scout's terse refusal to divulge his emotions as always when he felt particularly pouty.

"'S it still have somethin' to do with you'nd your wankin'?"

"Aw, c'mon, we ain't over that shit—?!"

"Obviously not, the way you're borderline shakin' over there—I know 's what you've got on your mind," Sniper sighs, his voice sympathetic as opposed to scathing or critical.

"Dunno why you're poutin' about it over there, love; You must be right stupid if you didn't think I didn't catch on—"

Scout throws the man a sarcastic grin, the upturned sneer coupled with a brash flail of his left hand, the gesture resulting ultimately in a sloppy raising of his middle finger.

"Alright, alright, enough with the 'tude, seriously," Sniper stands, stretching and ambling his way to the Bostonian at a comfortable pace. Sniper brings an arm around his shoulder, eyes round and understanding, free from the obstruction of his sunglasses.

"What's _wrong_, love?!" Sniper whispers through puckered lips, his braced hand around his lover's frame giving Scout a slight, lighthearted push.

"Eh? C'mon...!" Sniper grins, clasping his hand against Scout's cheek before it settles itself into his hair.

"...I thought I finally had it all figured out, y'know?" Scout begins, laughing humourously and shaking his head. "I thought I was done bein' fuckin' confused; I thought, y'know—I finally knew what it is I wanted," he admits shamefully, his heart plummeting as he feels Sniper retract his embrace, his face stony and crestfallen.

"I—I see,"

Scout can hear the disappointment in Sniper's voice, the Australian scratching nervously behind his neck.

Scout certainly hadn't expected Sniper to react this way—though Scout's noticeable growth in wary awkwardness seems to demonstrate his soundless shock over Sniper's reaction over the young man's heartfelt confession.

"Yeah..."

"How long have you felt this way?"

"What way...?"

"Like—" Sniper's brow furrows as the words catch in his throat, and he waves his hand in exasperation. "How long have you known y'didn't want me anymore—?!"

"WHAT?! Jack—!" Scout stutters, and his hands scramble to clutch onto Sniper's front. Catching his weight, Sniper grunts as the young man leans against him, Scout's eyes darting about Sniper's face nervously, his breath little puffs of quick anticipation.

"I—I didn't say that!" he huffs, shaking his head wildly and glaring at the Australian.

"I—I—_no_, I didn't mean _I don't know what I want_ as if I don't know what I want from _you_! Nah I meant I—Jack!"

Scout's toothy grin eases Sniper, the older of the two relaxing visibly.

"I meant, well—I dunno—I guess I was finally used to bein' a fag—"

"Oi, what now?!"

"But it's been so fuckin' _weird_, Snipes, it seems like I've wanted nothin' but girls these last few days!"

"_What_—?!"

"I don't get what it is you ain't understandin'—okay, so: I didn't have no fuckin' doubts 'bout nothin' until I met you, Jack—I always knew I liked chicks—banged enough of 'em, that's for sure—"

"Bullshit, Luc said you were a virgin if there ever was one—!"

"Fuck him, how in the fuck did he know, was he fuckin' _watchin'_ me—?!"

"Look, love, no one with experience would lose 'is shit the way you do when I mess around with ya—"

Scout punches him in the arm, face a bright red, though within his eyes shines a guilt so furious that Sniper needs not antagonize him further.

"So maybe I only kissed a couple—a few—five or six, who knows now—felt up one girl's bra once, got my dick sucked by another—"

"No you didn't, Lawrence—ow—!"

"Ridin' 'nd suckin' dick wasn't even on my _mind_, dude! I was pretty confident with my skills with the girls—shut the fuck up, Snipes—'_Nd man_, I get deployed out here 'nd I'm surrounded by nothin' but fuckin' chesthair and _balls_, 'nd I dunno where Luc hides his Penthouse stash out here—but the next thing I know _we're_ friends 'nd we're scrimmin' 'nd rollin' around, then outta nowhere I'm poppin' boners thinkin' of you—remember when we'd wrestle 'nd shit—?!"

"'nd the way you'd grind your hips into mine'n start moanin' but run away all fast when it hit ya you were doin' it? Yeah—"

Scout glares, but continues promptly.

"Well I was confused as Hell, Jack, wankin' over you 'nd callin' your name—"

"Took you two years t'just accept it for what it was 'nd let me play with ya—!"

"Yeah well, fast forward to last fuckin' week when I start gettin' a cravin' for snatch—"

"Ew, mate, d'you kiss your mother with that mouth o'yours—?!"

"Seriously, dick just wasn't doin' it for me—no offense—'nd I mean, _damn_, thinkin' of girls has me jizzin' harder than I have in a long ass time—well, except for whenever it was you were suckin' 'n rubbin' my junk or whatever—but _seriously_ man, what the fuck?!"

Scout ends passionately, Sniper raising a silent eyebrow in response to the Bostonian's pressing question.

"_Seriously man, what the fuck_?" Sniper repeats disbelievingly, his face still coiled in a hybrid of confusion and disbelief.

"'s that honestly the question you're wantin' me t'answer, love?!"

"Just—Why can't I stop thinkin' about girls if I want dick?!"

"Oh," Sniper whispers, running a hand through his hair before scrunching his face in silent thought.

"...I don't think it's you so much _wantin' dick_ as much as it is you wantin' someone who jus' so happens to _have_ one—for the sake o'the conversation, let's just say I had lady parts instead—"

"What?!"

"Would you still be attracted to me?!"

"Ew, dude, it would be fuckin' _weird_,"

"Pretend it wasn't—! Urgh, y'know what I mean—!"

"So you're askin' me if I would still love you if you were you, but cut off your balls'nd got a vagina?!"

"Yes—I mean—No—!"

"I mean, I guess, I love ya no matter what, but that's still fuckin' gross—"

"I'm not askin' _would you still love me, waaaahhh_, but rather if you're attracted to me physically, if me havin' a cock had any role in you fallin' in love with me in the first place,"

"I—nah, I mean—I just fell in love with _you_, you know?! I didn't even think about that shit—I ain't gonna lie, I mean, it was fuckin' weird at first, 'cause it was like, I knew I wanted to _do_ you, but—masturbatin' over you was the fuckin' weirdest thing, 'cause shit if I knew what it was two dudes did together, or what it is imaginin' you doin' to me was supposed to get me off.

Like, I didn't know how sex between two guys worked! And it was frustratin', 'cause I had these feelings for ya, right? And I knew I wanted sex, but I didn't understand, and—ah, it's whatever, it's in the past—but now I know what to _do_, and I _like_your dick—yeah, keep your dick, dude, it's fuckin' hot!"

"'S not the point of the question, Scout..." Sniper sighs, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand tiredly.

"I'm flattered—but you're not hittin' home, here..."

"Oh, then what was?!"

"Well, I guess—nevermind—a better one to ask would be if you ever have these feelin's for another bloke?"

"Hell no, slugger—!"

"D'you look at other men after having been with me for a bit 'nd see them sexually?"

"This might sound hella strange, but other dudes seem...gross, you know?! Like, it's almost as if you're some exception!"

"Right..."

"I mean, like I said, I finally just came out with it last week and said, 'yeah, I like Sniper's dick in my mouth—'"

"_'Nd other places—_"

"So I figured I musta liked dick in general, no? But if I like dick, how come I've been thinkin' about girls this last week?"

The question resonates between them for a few seconds, and Sniper brings his thumb and forefinger to pinch the bridge of his nose, Scout eyeing the indentations his sunglasses have left behind upon it in the mean time.

"Well, first off, sexuality isn't as black 'nd white as you're makin' it sound; it isn't, _'likin' dick'_, or 'likin' good ole fashioned sheilas 'nd their own indulgences' as you seem to be convinced it is. Sexuality is very, very complicated—it's governed by your hormones, emotions, impulses, chemicals—biology, if you will—'nd you know how crazy shit gets when you start talkin' 'bout science,"

"So why do I wanna fuck a girl while gettin' fucked by you at the same time?! That's all I wanna know—none of this science bullshit!"

"That's jus' you bein' a freak, Lawrence," Sniper growls, his grin spreading as he catches Scout's eye.

"So uh, would ya—? Y'know, be willing?"

"I'm afraid not, mate—not into all that—or women; I wouldn't be able t'get it up to fulfill my portion of your _fantasy_—"

"You're no fun..."

"What can I say, I love you 'nd no one else—I have no interest in _fuckin_' no one else, either—'nd it's best t'keep things simple so I'm not sittin' here wonderin' why I wanna hump the girl while you pound my ass while you get drilled by a mermaid or whatever the fuck else ya got brewin' in your mind—"

"You ain't funny, Jack!"

"I'm not tryin' t'be! I'm bein' one hundred percent serious when I say don't worry about it—'s what I've been tellin' ya all evenin'—sexuality is complicated, 'nd maybe your emotions are just changin' around a bit—"

"They can change around all they want, but all I wanna know is if I am still attracted to girls, or am I battin' for team cock sucker now?"

"I swear your wordin' drives me up a bloody wall—"

"Hey, it's just the truth!"

"Well, first 'nd foremost you're _bisexual_, at the very least—even if I'm the only man you've ever had feelin's for, the point is you've still had them toward another man—"

"And do you have _any_ idea what it's like, bein' young 'nd fallin' for a dude after years of likin' girls?!"

"Seriously?" Sniper asks dully, raising an unamused eyebrow. "Did you _seriously_ just fuckin' ask me that?"

"What?" Scout asks quietly, Sniper shaking his head but continuing nonetheless.

"'Course I know what it feels like ya bloody idiot—as a matter of fact, I didn't even have the luxury of likin' girls—d'_you_ know what it's like, bein' young 'nd knowin' that you were _different_ from all the other boys?

Eight, nine years old, 'nd somethin's just _naggin'_ at ya, an instinct; but you don't want to seem weird, and you sure as Hell don't want to believe you really _are_!

Then puberty hits, 'nd you get your pimples 'nd your armpit hair like everyone else, but all of a sudden Jeff Clift from next door—he looks different to ya all o'sudden, but you can't quite put your finger on what it is that's changed—so you wait for him, sittin' on your porch, waitin' for him to come outside, maybe ask ya to play—perhaps then you could figure out what it is that makes this boy so different now than before in your eyes—when, next thing you know, it's beyond obvious,"

Sniper produces a cigarette, shaking his head whilst striking a match, lighting the tobacco.

"Another one?!"

"Was a bit like how you were—denyin' my emotions out the wazoo, but horny as all get up—" Sniper continues, ignoring Scout.

"How in the fuck is that anything like me?!"

"Oh, I dunno, maybe the way you spent the last two years _tryin' t'have sex with me_ while tellin' me you didn't _love me_ 'nd weren't a fag at the same time? That count?"

"Shut up—"

"Just bein' honest; you reminded me a bit o'me when I was still figurin' shit out—'cept I musta been about fourteen years old, 'nd just like you I was gushin' with hormones—I nearly hit the bloody ceilin' that summer, I grew so tall—but there I was; lanky, awkward, 'nd I always went shootin' with my dad instead o'dickin' around with my classmates, so I had the whole 'creeper loner who's eight feet tall who plays with guns' vibe goin' for me...

But Jeff from next door—well, he was only a couple years older than me, I'd gathered that much from looks alone—he drove, had this little thing—it was dark red and had a messed up muffler, it was loud— 'nd I'd wait on the porch for him to come back so I could throw'im a wave 'nd melt in a puddle of my own lust when _he'd_ throw a smile my way,"

"Dude, you were such a fag..."

Sniper chuckles darkly.

"I _know_; Oh God, he had this square jaw, blonde hair, he always had it parted—wore these slacks 'nd those tight fittin' shirts—he played all sorts o'sports so he was fit, tall, broad shouldered, 'nd he had those green eyes—they were t'die for...

'Nd so I finally gathered up the courage the end of my fourteenth summer t'go over there 'nd introduce myself outright. Y'know, my name is Jack Mundy, live next door, don't have many friends, blah blah—now don't get me wrong! I may've been awkward, but I _was_ a looker—I was just too weird t'take advantage of it. So it wasn't like I was on his porch with pus spewin' outta planet sized zits—it was just obvious that maybe I'd kept a bit to myself and was lookin' for a friend.

Jeff was just as charmin' as I'd made him out to be in my mind. Never laughed at me, invited me in for a drink, asked where I went t'school, what year I'd be headin' into—turns out we both attended the same secondary school—'course he was a couple years ahead o'me, but I was absolutely _ecstatic_ to hear the news—but we got to talkin', bein' better friends, 'nd it wasn't long before I was head over heels for the bloke—"

"D'aw,"

"I didn't want to ruin my chances with him, so instead I just hid all my real feelin's for him; wasn't too hard t'do, you couldn't look at me 'nd tell I was _queer_, unless you could hear my thoughts. Although my father caught on that maybe I was just a little _too_ excited over 'im, but'e let it slide, ultimately—'s long as I wasn't on my knees playin' with his cock in the livin' room my father just let it be—but let me tell you, Lawrence, we were _inseparable_, after a while—best friends if there ever were any—we'd do everythin' together, tell each other everythin' there was t'know about anythin'! 'Nd with him bein' my only friend it wasn't like I had anywhere else to'be, 'nd finally, during one o'our camps out to the woods, I told 'im how I felt,"

"Seriously? And what did he say, dude?!"

"Yup; Well, Jeff just looked at me real sad, 'nd told me he had a girlfriend,"

"Aw, Jack..."

"Her name was Mandy, 'nd I'd always seen her, always wondered if maybe she was a special friend o'his—she was the only one who Jeff would actually leave my side for; she'd spend time with us quite often 'nd I liked her, real sweet girl—well in that moment, I hated her more than I'd ever hated anyone else,"

"I bet,"

"So I teared up like a little pansy—here I was, admittin' to both him and myself I liked blokes—but he put a hand on my shoulder 'nd said, 'You're a real handsome boy, Jack, I know you won't have trouble findin' someone,' or somethin' like that—

'nd then it got real quiet between us, 'nd he started touchin' my face, 'nd my legs, sayin' that I was hot, the best lookin' guy he'd ever seen, 'nd that he would kiss me t'make me feel better, just once, 'nd that Mandy wouldn't mind—"

"And?"

"Good Lord, love, he did everythin' to me short o'penetration," Sniper recounts, eyes wide as the memory returns to him.

"Hell yeah! Snipes got lucky!"

"'nd so we went back home that Sunday—holdin' hands 'nd smoochin' in his backseat before headin' home—I was in heaven; felt bad 'cause he had his girlfriend, but I was gettin' handjobs from the boy I loved, I could only care'nd sulk so much—'til the next day at school, that is.

I was standin' outside in the hall during a break—'nd here comes Jeff, right? 'Nd all our schoolmates were shufflin' around, standin' about 'n chattin'—when outta nowhere, he points me out t'everyone 'nd calls me a fag—"

"What?!"

"He called me a fag, shouted it from the other end o'the hall—everyone was watchin', seein' what I'd say back. But before I could do anythin' he slammed me against the locker, 'nd pummeled me while everyone cheered on,"

"No way!"

"He laughed, 'nd the others weren't about to stop their entertainment, collectively disgusted by the homo Jeff was beatin' up—didn't take long for news o'the brawl to spread around the school, 'nd I went home, sore and brokenhearted as a motherfucker,"

"Holy shit, Jack!"

"I didn't tell my parents—I knew it wouldn't end well, y'know? Dad would wanna know _why_ he thought I was a fag, demand to speak with his parents—But it didn't matter—the doorbell rang 'nd it was Jeff, lookin' like nothin' had ever happened, like a boy standin' in the doorway of his best friend's house, grinnin'—I opened my mouth to ask him what he'd meant by all that, but he kissed me before I could get a word out, tellin' me he wanted me 'nd couldn't stand another minute away from me.

We fooled around a bit in his car, 'nd I, like a giant idiot, was elated; I was worried he really _did_ hate me, but we came together as always that day, washed up in a stream a ways in the woods, he gave me a kiss goodbye, 'nd went to pick up Mandy afterwards,"

"Dude, please tell me you knocked his teeth in!"

"I was in love, Lawrence, 'course not; but the next day, the same thing happened; he beat me up at school, drove me home after, jerked me off.

He'd wait for me in the schoolyard when no one was around. He'd beckon for me t'get in the car, all smiley, like he wasn't houndin' me, 'nd I didn't mention the bullyin' to him 'cause I was worried that he would get angry'n either hit me more or it would drive him away from me—as long as we were still touchin' each other, it didn't matter—even if it hurt,"

"Oh, Jack,"

"Well, my Father wasn't stupid—I had bruises'n hickies all over me! He wanted t'know what was goin' on, what in all the world it was I was hidin'. Didn't say shit, but I didn't need to; it didn't take him long to assume I was havin' a bully problem.

So he pried, pried, and pried, but I held my own. Behind my dad's questionin', me and Jeff would fight 'nd have sex, ad infinitum, right? S'long as no one knew, 'nd Jeff was touchin' me, callin' me beautiful, it didn't matter. I didn't care where or in front of who he was havin' sex with me, just as long as he _was_.

I made a huge mistake, lookin' at it that way.

We were in his car makin' out—my lips were swollen 'nd cut from him beatin' me up that day, still bleedin', even—we pull back, 'nd what does my dumbass say?"

"Oh God, Jack, don't tell me—"

"I actually saw the rage envelop him when I said 'I love you'—it was quiet, heartfelt—unintentional, but heartfelt. He roared and punched me until I blanked out cold,"

"Holy shit...!"

"So he drove me back home, tossed my body onto the porch 'nd told my father I was a dirty fag, that I'd tried suckin' his dick 'nd got aggressive when he said no, so he had to beat me up. I had come around my lips from when I'd given 'im a nice one, so the story wasn't exactly unbelievable.

I swear my dad brought me back to consciousness just so he could beat me back out of it.

'I won't have a fag for a son, you're filthy, dirty, I'm gonna get sick, how dare you disrespect me and our family—' heard it all, mate. 'Nd as my father slammed me into the wall that final time, I was done with it. I was done with Jeff.

That next day at school I found 'im at lunch, pulled my fist back, 'nd let him have it so badly my knuckles were bleedin' 'nd leavin' a trail all down the hall,"

"Shit!"

"Finally got in trouble with the school. Took a bit of actin' on my part, but I managed to convince my dad that Jeff was a liar 'nd that I was straight—our school's director finally called a meetin' with us 'nd our parents, 'nd the verdict ended with Jeff's expulsion, and my Dad givin' his own Dad a nice shiner 'cause he said I was a flamer—Mum was hysterical, she thought for sure they were goin' to call the police 'nd press charges, but they never did, they moved a month after that, and that was the end of it,"

"Damn, Jack..."

"You can prolly imagine the heartache I was feelin', no? Through it all I loved him, 'nd lost my best friend on top of that! 'Nd then my father said he wanted me to transfer schools, because everyone at my old one thought I was a 'cock sucker', lord knows he couldn't stand the thought. Granted I was never popular there, I hated change, and change on top of everything else overwhelmed me quite powerfully.

Still, I put up no resistance, and that fall, I was at a new Secondary school. It was in the next district over, so the walk was longer, but it was worth it.

My father saw it as a fresh start—and also as an unspoken chance to prove to him I wasn't a 'fag'.

I was pretty keen on the idea of not bein' one myself; I didn't want to ever experience anythin' like that again, which you can prolly understand—'nd everyone around me made me feel subhuman for my emotions, whether they knew they were or not, so I promised myself I would only like girls from then on out.

The first step to that was talkin' to'em, seein' what they liked—who better to talk to than my sister—"

"_You have a sister_—?!"

"Yeah, love! Leslie, she's a year older than me! I know I've told you about her"

"Dude, what the Hell, you never told me that!"

"I've shown you loads of pictures!—anyway, I approached Leslie about girls 'nd all that—she knew what had happened at my old school so she had some sympathy for me—told me everything she thought a boy tryin' to find himself a nice girl should know about women—at the time, it all felt foolproof.

'Nd you know what? Things actually went damn well, at first—made some friends, got a little job wipin' tables at a soda bar, saved up and got a car, did well in school—most importantly I'd been able to subdue my attraction to boys—sure, every once in a while you'd spy a cute one, or not wankin' became _unbearable_ and so you'd break down—but the important thing was I wasn't caught up with another Jeff, 'nd my father wasn't accusin' me of, well, _anything_.

Like I said, havin' pocket money, a couple o'friends to spend it on, 'nd a car to go places with helped me open up a bit—even if the damn thing was shoddy.

There was one girl, Emma—she'd fallen for me completely, eh? I helped her with chemistry, 'nd I guess she took a likin' to me, 'cause she asked me if I wouldn't take her on a date—she was a cute girl, had dark hair, 'nd was obviously mixed with somethin'—I wanna say Guatemalan? Real beautiful eyes—they had a literal shine to them—I wasn't an idiot, I said yes, 'nd I took her out to see a little film that same night.

We had a great time, right? And so we started goin' on little dates regularly, when finally, around Christmas our twelfth year, she asked if I didn't want to be her _boyfriend_.

I loved her as a friend, I really did—but I was so desperate to prove myself to my father, to fit in, to not _lose_ her, I had myself convinced it was a romantic love. I said yes, and with the largest smile I could muster I kissed her on the cheek and ran home to tell my father the news.

He was relieved and very proud, sayin' she was a cute girl. I was in the clear, 'nd it all seemed too perfect. For my eighteenth birthday he bought me the camper 'nd told me t'use it if the bed got too _squeaky_—dad liked his jokes—so of course I was on top of the world! Drivin' about in my van, getting' into all sorts of trouble with my mates 'nd with a cute girlfriend, to boot,"

"Did you do'er?"

"I'm getting' t'that," Sniper sighs, heaving heavily as he continues further.

"So finally, me 'nd her decided to take a nice little weekend trip out to the bush with the van—now, you know how young people are—took me until Sunday night to realize she wanted me to take her virginity—"

"Get some, Snipes—!"

"I got nothin' but embarrassment, mongrel,"

"Meaning?"

"Well, we were makin' out, 'nd things progressed, 'nd, well…"

"Did you fuck her? Huh? _Huh_?!"

"God dammit, _I couldn't get it up_, Scout! I had 'er all flustered'nd naked underneath me, and all I could do was sit on top of her completely naked with my limp dick in my hand!"

"Ouch, Jack—that's—that's bad," Scout winces, Sniper nodding broadly in response.

"Tell me you pulled a miracle—"

"I cried," Sniper smirks, laughing at the memory. "I started sobbin'—if there was ever a moment I knew I was gay, that was it—the girl is throwin' herself at ya'nd all you can give her is the most unenthusiastic cock and an unsolicited nervous breakdown,"

"Baaad timing, dude…"

"Oh, it gets worse; goin' t'sleep that night was awkward enough—'til the lass caught me masturbatin' to pictures of half naked men I'd had stashed under my pillow—don't gimmie that look, it gets even _worse_ from here, too! Girl saw no point in me if I wasn't gonna be wreckin' 'er, so she started cheatin'—still used me for my car 'nd the gifts I'd been pretty much been usin' t'_bribe_ her, by that point. I needed her to call my "girlfriend" so Dad didn't start getting' suspicious.

Ended up hearin' the rumours that she was sleepin' around from a good friend of mine—said he was some guy from another school—well, lucky for me, it just so happened to be our good friend Jeff,"

"You fuckin' serious?! You're shittin' me!"

"Nope! 'Nd the bitch thought it would be cute if she told 'im 'bout my little—er, blunder that night—"

"So she just _cheated_ on ya?!"

"Oi, can't say I blame her, love; we were young, 'nd it was beyond obvious I was a little quackers. Maybe she just didn't know how to break it off, or maybe she felt too bad to break it off. Either way, it didn't take long for the whole school to hear about my studly maneuvers in the bedroom!"

"_Again_?"

"History just repeats itself, love—but the _real_ kicker was when my Dad found out from one o'the fathers of a schoolmate of mine—he told Dad that I wasn't to come near his son because I was a queer,"

"And?! What did he do?!"

"I figured I had nothin' to lose at this point, 'nd so I told him the truth!"

"Did you at least leave out the erectile dysfunction part?"

"There was no point, everyone in Adelaide knew!"

"Damn, how in the fuck did you not just _kill yourself_—?!"

"I tried,"

"WHAT?!"

"Tried shootin' myself with one o'my rifles—Mum found me before I could carry it out,"

"Jack!"

"My Dad'd kicked me out 'cause of the whole ordeal, not to mention I was skippin' school 'cause I was getting' harassed_again_. Dad said I was to leave 'nd never come near him or Mum or Leslie again, that he had no son; 'nd so I took the van 'nd never looked back,"

"Wait, what?! Hold on, you mean you haven't seen your parents since you were what, nineteen, twenty?"

"Not exactly; when my father kicked me out I'd only just graduated. I had no plans for my future, 'nd I knew the only thing that _was_ certain was that there was no way I was goin' t'be livin' under the roof of my father's home as long as I didn't like dames. So I took the van, 'nd that became my home, love,"

"What the fuck, man," Scout scoffs, shaking his head.

"Seriously, this is some fucked up shit!"

"My sister slipped me a hug 'nd some money the night I left—Mum was breakin' down in the corner while my father shouted—I just grabbed some clothes 'nd a few little things, 'nd as far as I knew, that was it!"

"Jeeze!"

"'Nd so the Bush became my home; the only thing there was to do out _there_ was hunt 'nd hike, 'nd that was the only thing about my childhood I actually enjoyed, right? Huntin' with my dad—'nd so I practiced my shootin' skills, used the time to clear my head, calm _down_—I'm tellin' ya, my years travellin' the Lucky Country were some of the best,"

"Really?"

"Oh yeah! You meet all _sorts_ o'people when you've got nothin' but time 'nd a blank mind—'nd often times, you're all headed the same way,"

"Uhuh?"

"I had my time, sure, but it wasn't until I'd heard from a man I'd gotten to know named Vincent things really started to make a bit of sense—"

"How'd you meet him?"

"Hitchhikin'! Old guy was standin' on the side o'the road bakin', 'nd I stopped for 'im! Figured why not, I had the room, no? He had a real scraggly beard, skin like leather—dirt all over his clothes, 'nd yet pearly white teeth—ain't that odd? Anyway, we got to talkin', 'course—bloke was headed East, 'nd we had a ways t'go— but he started ramblin' 'bout the Australian armed forces, of all things—anyway of course the question about my hobbies 'nd intentions 'nd plans had to come up, 'nd I told him I'd been killin' time huntin' game—well, lemmie tell ya, this guy went borderline apeshit when I told 'im. He wanted me to pull over, 'nd show 'im what I could do,"

"Were you as fuckin' sick as you are now?"

"Come again?"

"I mean, you're a pretty badass sniper, even if I hate to admit it,"

"Well, I mean—" Sniper grins, rolling his eyes affectionately at the young man. "I had skill, he told me that right away—'nd this is where what I said about the armed forces comes in: he said I should enlist, that a shot like mine was goin' to waste the way I was headed; so he suggested I put it to good use,"

"And how did you feel about that? About, you know, becomin' a soldier?"

"Well, I was young, 'nd I wasn't doin' anything else, I supposed—wasn't _too_ enthusiastic, but I figured hey, why not? If it gave me purpose, I didn't see what the big deal was,"

"So?"

"So I enlisted; talk to a recruitin' officer—went through all the standard procedures, like trainin' camps 'nd such—but again, my superiors thought I was an exceptional shot right from the beginnin'. The officers were whisperin' my name 'nd castin' me looks, 'nd somehow I knew I was gonna be goin' another way from my comrades,"

"RED, huh?"

"You got it—apparently it was some elite special task force somethin' or other—wasn't really payin' attention or givin' a shit, all I knew was it paid well 'nd that I was gonna be some super cool agent by the way they were makin' it sound,"

"You had no idea what you were basically signin' your life away for was all about?!"

"To be quite bloody frank, I still don't, love," Sniper scoffs.

"Sure, they say we're resolvin' world conflicts 'nd that we're fightin' for the interests of our countries—but nothin's changed, 'nd the way things are lookin', they'll never change…"

And Scout chews on his bottom lip as silence stifles the story telling mood Sniper had unexpectedly adopted, the Australian visibly exhausted by the recounting of his youth.

"Hey, Jack?"

"Hm?" Sniper grunts, eyes closed and head craned upward once more.

"H—have you seen your parents since then?"

"Mhn—Briefly; visited them durin' leave about seven years ago or somethin'—whenever it was my sister was still pregnant—'nd I remember it quite clearly, 'cause my father didn't say a damn word to me the whole time,"

"Yeesh, you'd think ten fuckin' years and his son becomin' a national fuckin' _hero_ would get the stick out of his ass,"

"Heh, there're many things you'd _think_ 'bout 'im…don't get me wrong, I telephone home every now'nd then, but I have a feelin' my Dad'll go to his grave disgusted with me; 'nd I just gotta live with that while livin' my _own_ life, you know?"

"So then I guess I ain't ever gonna get a chance to meet the folks, huh?" Scout jokes, Sniper allowing himself a short chuckle and another handful of silent moments thereafter.

"Hey, Jack…"

"Yah?"

"You know I love you, right? That I'm never gonna pull a Jeff on ya…"

"'Course I do, mongrel," Sniper smiles smally, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

"No, I mean it," Scout nods. "I really do—I don't think you're gross, or got a disease,"

"Sweet of ya…"

"Nah, really," Scout whispers, shifting in the man's lap and resting his head upon the man's shoulder "I love you…"

The two sit wrapped in an intricate embrace, saying nothing as the minutes grow larger in numbers and farther in between.

"I know I've said some horrible shit to ya, 'nd that it's kinda too late to take it all back'nd say it, but I love you, Jack, 'nd I won't ever leave ya,"

Scout's yelp of surprise is muffled as Sniper tilts his head downward, pressing his lips against Scout's carefully. Moments such as these were rarities from Scout, the full cooperation and affectionate attention from the young man being an indulgence Sniper could hardly say he'd grown accustomed to.

And thus the Australian saves himself the opportunity of breaking their contact by uttering any sort of words, eyes shut as their lips part only to peck instantly at the other's again.

_'S not like I'd ever let you go if you tried'_


	13. The Biology of Things Part Zwei

Sniper was very much surprised to see that Scout's affectionate disposition had not dissipated upon morning. His story must have struck something within the Bostonian, he concluded in instantaneous alertness as he awoke to find Scout snuggled against him. He could do nothing but smirk at the sleeping young man, whose arms locked around his body, the limbs twisted around him with the durability of thickened vines, complaisant and yet very gentle.

The same brisk leisure and lively intimacy was present even as the two continued on their wayward trek, Lawrence not complaining at all as the drive of the day reaches its first hour in duration. It had taken a day or two for Jack to block out the incessant tapping and banging against the dashboard with which Scout had preoccupied himself their first day of travel—and the Australian finds that even with his third glance of shock at the stationary Scout he still can only just barely believe the sight to be true.

Eyes lightly narrowed and cast to the side as he watches the road pass out the window with a soft smile, Scout drums the tips of his fingers inaudibly against the passenger door, seemingly content with the day as it seemed to be unfolding, the current situation, and most surprisingly of all, Sniper himself.

It could be argued that Jack's newly developed distaste for silence and the lack of any sort of conversational stimulation stems from the influence of Lawrence himself. Two years ago Sniper _never_ would have been so unnerved by the thought of silence—_especially_ not any sort of silence from someone for whom it was physically impossible to _shut up_. Sniper never would have surrounded himself with such rowdy, immature, opinionated and fundamentally obnoxious company to begin with!

Each glance the older man steals of the Bostonian is accompanied by the attempt to start a bit of _discussion_ with him, his mouth agape for seconds at a time. His inability to find the words doesn't surprise him, as Sniper never really _was_ one to initiate any sort of pointless chit chat.

'_I s'pose I could jus' ask 'im what it is that's got 'im so smiley over there_'

But Sniper can do nothing but smile in return as their eyes meet, Scout's beam only growing in its brevity—and most of all in its _sincerity_.

"Wot's got ya so sweet all o'sudden, eh?" Sniper jokes, giving his shoulder a light and friendly shove. "Over here smilin', not sayin' a word, not bitchin' about bein' on the road, or where we're goin'..."

"I dunno, I just figured, well, all the dudes you've been datin' have been total pricks, I guess, and, I dunno—I guess I just felt kinda bad, like you got all these memories and I'm just another one o'them,"

"Oi, s'not your fault, love, you ain't gotta be on your best behaviour jus' 'cause o'what happened all those years ago,"

Scout chews a bit on his lip, shrugging lightly.

"I mean, I dunno, I've said some pretty terrible shit, and I'm not always the sweetest to you, ya know? You do a lot for me, wombat, and I just don't feel like I tell ya enough,"

"Tell me what?" Sniper asks in the height of his light curiosity, his smile almost mockingly wide as he awaits Scout's answer.

"Aw, come on,I ain't _really_ gotta say it, do I?! It ain't like you don't already _know_!"

"Say _what_?!"

"That I—nah, fuck it, dude; fuck you, fuck this whole conversation! Now listen up, I'm tired of sittin' around, I'm hungry, I wish you'd quit ignorin' me, 'n' how much longer we got 'til we get to _wherever_ the hell it is we're even goin'..."

"I wasn't ignorin' ya, I was jus' takin' advantage of the silence. Now how long you been holdin' all this in, love? I know it musta been killin' ya t'stay quiet this whole time," Sniper smirks.

"All mornin', now drive faster before I bail outta this thing 'cause I'm bored to death!"

"_That's_ my Lawrence,"

"So then you _want_ me to be a dick?!"

"'S what I love about ya, gremlin; sure as hell don't remember fallin' for Lawrence the Good Boy 'nd Sweetheart Extraordinaire,"

"Prolly like gettin' pushed down the stairs and called a bitch, too; you might wanna get yourself checked out, dude,"

"Oi now, that's not funny!"

"I don't hear ya sayin' no—!"

"Well then _'no'_; no, I don't. 'Nd I've got the experience o'bein' thrown down stairs 'nd beat t'my last breath t'confirm the choice, too..."

"I'm just kiddin', Jack, you ain't gotta tear up or nothin'"

Sniper shakes his head, turning his attention back onto the road and silence being a responsible driver called for.

"For real, though, I was just kiddin'—domestic abuse ain't funny,"

Scout perks up as the man scoffs and shakes his head disbelievingly, mumbling gravely.

"What?" Lawrence leans toward the driver's seat, clutching onto Jack's arm.

"_Whaaat_—?!"

"OI, 'RE YOU FUCKIN' _NUTS_?!" Jack roars as Lawrence shakes the man's bicep, the steering wheel and van itself swerving violently, the screech of tires skidding across the muggy road deafening for the few seconds Sniper loses control of the automobile.

"YOU TRYIN' T'GET US KILLED, YA LITTLE SHIT?!" he spits, Scout furrowing his brow angrily, though refusing to dignify Sniper's scolding with any words of his own.

"Nothin'!" Jack growls in response to Scout's original question, a few tense seconds passing between them. "I didn't say anythin'—now—I'm startin' to regret ever talkin' to ya—"

"THEN MAYBE I JUST WON'T SAY SHIT THEN!"

"_Like you could—_"

"Watch me, you fuckin' _dick_,"

"Y'want me to watch _you_ or the road, so we don't bloody _die_?!"

The two share a heated glare before Sniper breaks it, starting the van and driving once more. Even in Lawrence's stubborn anger he still can't help but spend the next noiseless ten minutes casting quick glances at the Australian in hopes to catch Jack looking at him in return. Like a provoked animal the young man sits up in his seat, mouth wide as Sniper reaches a hand in his direction. Lawrence's excitement subsides as the fingers he'd expected to wrap against his own hand curl around the dial of the radio instead.

He narrows his eyes, sticking out his tongue at the older man, slightly peeved that Sniper shows no signs of dwelling on the bickering at all, unlike himself. The Australian's slightly aged face is completely neutral as he hums along with the tune that hums its own way out of the radio—Scout always despised the old people music the man frequently enjoyed on longer car rides they'd taken together. Jack claimed it was the music of his childhood, but boring old jazz, Scout felt, seemed almost like counterproductive listening for someone trying to revive the days of the youth.

That and Scout hated love songs.

_'The object of my affection, can change my complexion, from white to a rosy red…'_

Lawrence kicks his legs impatiently, his eyes darting about the dashboard of the van spastically.

_'Anytime he holds my hand, and tells me that he's mine…'_

"Man, fuck this gay ass shit! Over here listenin' to this shit like a girl!"

"Oi, at least I don't fuck like one,"

"_WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN_—?!"

"'Nd at least I know whether or not I _want_ to fuck one,"

"Hey, Jack, that was uncalled for!" Scout whines, roaring moodily as all Sniper can produce in return is an innocent shrug.

"Seriously, I thought we were over that," Scout pouts, eying Sniper sheepishly. "I never shoulda told your ass..."

"I never woulda asked if you hadn't made cummin' on my face while I sleep a nightly thing!"

Lawrence's back slams against his seat once more, the young man lost in a fuming, moody slump.

"You turnin' five or _twenty_ five this year, mate?! You're actin' like a child, 'nd I suggest not dishin' 'em if ya can't take 'em!"

"Maybe you could try not bein' a dick for once and just leave me alone!"

"Wait, what?" Sniper chuckles, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head at Scout's pouting figure.

"You're always makin' fun of me for bein' a fag, well maybe that shit ain't funny to me!"

_'But it's alright t'make fun o'me for the same reason…_' Sniper snaps internally, sighing heavily and placing his eyes on the road once more.

And so a whole hour passes by, not a word being spoken. It isn't until Sniper dares a brief look in Scout's direction that he realizes he'd actually fallen asleep, curled in lazy slumber. Sniper lets out a solitary, brief laugh as he realizes the distaste and irritation still plague the expression he graces even in slumber.

_'S best to let him sleep.'_

-

And it isn't until the sky is a royal violet and the sun begins its dissension when Scout finally stirs, finding himself stretched in the passenger seat, Sniper's vest draped around his shoulders.

Albeit with no actual Sniper besides him.

Shadows cast themselves like weightless tarp about the dashboard, the keys in the ignition, though their stationary dangle implies Jack had abandoned the van quite some time ago. He stretches, rubbing his blurred vision clear, gripping the vest and surveying the driver's seat of the van in order to make doubly sure the Australian truly resided elsewhere.

Lawrence opens the passenger door, his feet touching lightly against the damp earth, head spinning as his groggy state still drugs his equilibrium. The air is damp and musty and yet almost misty, frozen and very cool. Each drop of vapor settles into his pores, clinging in dewey beads in his hair.

It doesn't take long to find Sniper kneeling on the ground, face stained with dirt and moisture, engaged with the back left tire. The Bostonian can't help but make a mental note of Jack's shiver, the red shirt he always donned under the vest clutching to his body in rainy, humid adhesion. His teeth clack and the chill that slashes at his flesh and assuredly gusts through the Australian's lungs numb the whole of his physical self, his fingers white and blunt in their frozen movement.

"H—hey, catch—" Scout pipes up quietly, approaching him and kneeling beside him, tossing Sniper his vest.

"Thanks, love," Sniper grumbles, though Scout's brow furrows as he sees for certain that the dry garment still does nothing against his mild hypothermia—though it was ridiculous of him to assume the vest would act as instantaneous rejuvenation.

"Hey, you see the radiator's smokin', right?" Lawrence clears his throat, Sniper's breath shaking as he nods, swallowing his discomfort and flashing him a small, unconvincing smile. "'S nothin', she always does that if you're parkin' after a day's drive," Sniper grunts, tightening the tire and hoisting himself from the ground, his motions heavy, for his numb limbs restrict him to bumbling tiredly about.

"Got a flat tire a ways back—ended up hoppin' down the road for nearly a half a kilometer—was worried the bumpin' was gonna wake ya,"

"You're freezin' out here, Jack…why didn't you wake me up and ask me to help you? You coulda been done already!"

"You were sleepin', love, I didn't wanna bother y'over somethin' I can handle myself,"

Scout shakes his head, yawning and stretching, catching Jack's eye as he smiles, a sympathetic glint welled in his eyes as he silently wills an apology to Scout for their argument earlier.

"Nah..." is all Lawrence can come up with in response, standing with his arms at his sides, mouth parted slightly as he remains undecided as to whether or not he wishes to verbally accept the man's apology. Regardless, Jack lets his back slide against the camper, cigarette in between his lips, sunglasses dangling so low Lawrence can see the whole of his eyes. "You sure we're gonna be alright? Just sittin' on the side of the road like this?" Scout asks warily, seating himself next to Sniper and craning his head to face him.

"Figured I could use the fresh air," Sniper shrugs, lips curled around the cigarette, smoke billowing from his nostrils. "'Course I can let ya in the camper if y'wanna lay down,"

"It ain't about me, you just look like an icicle! My teacher from high school once told us about this reaaallly cold stuff—liquid nitrogen—"

"Aye,"

"You look like you bathed in the shit,"

"Really? Do I look _that_ awful?"

"Not _awful_, but you look like you're gonna come down with a cold or something, soakin' wet and shiverin' like that—smokin' cigarettes when your lungs are all cold like that probably don't help none, either…"

"I don't plan on finishin' it, Doc," Sniper chuckles, his voice dashed with a hint of affectionate condescension on Scout's behalf.

"Smoke _inside_ at least?"

"I hate smokin' in the van, I don't like the place where I sleep t'smell like stale nicotine weeks after I actually lit the bloody thing,"

"I hope you don't expect me to take care of you when your ass is hackin' about, dude,"

The young man smirks, wondering silently whether the older man truly felt these conditions and the hazards they proposed his health to be a fair trade off for a fresh scent within the camper. Scout reaches for the cigarettes in the Australian's breast pocket, taking one in between his bandaged fingers for himself.

"Oi…!"

"Come on, just let me have one! I swear I ain't smoked since you told me not to—ow…" Scout yelps as Sniper reluctantly throws the young man the lighter, Lawrence igniting the end and taking in a particularly rewarding drag, eyes lidded as he too falls against the metal. "'S not like you can sit here and talk about _health_…"

"'S just ashame t'see a little thing like you get caught up in such a terrible habit,"

"A little thing like me?" Scout repeats with a raised eyebrow.

"You're not gonna be able t'run or capture anythin' if y'keep poisonin' your lungs with stuff like this,"

"'N' you?"

"Heh—my life ain't dependent on my ability to run, love,"

"Yeah, you _run_ a thousand miles away 'nd shoot from where no one can get ya like a bitch!"

"Hey, whatever works, mate!"

Scout puts up no resistance to the man draping an (albeit devastatingly cold and damp) arm around his shoulder, pressing the end of his dying cigarette to the brightly lit one Scout still enjoys.

"Y'look nice 'nd rested,"

"How long was I out for?"

"Mhn—the whole afternoon, at least,"

"Jeeze..."

"It was quiet—was nice at first, but around four or five I thought about wakin' you up, I missed your company,"

"Now you're just bullshitin'"

"No! I mean it, love!"

"Well you must be bi polar or somethin', 'cause one second you can't stand it and then the next you say you can't live without it,"

"Oi, I never went _that_ far, now,"

Both men look down at Scout's abdomen as a drawn out rumble rolls out from within Scout's neglected stomach in a captivating crescendo. "Ya hungry?" Sniper asks sarcastically and Scout wrinkles his nose before shrugging. "Figured I'd just wait 'til we got wherever it was we were goin' before eatin'," Scout's expression softens dully as it hits him that he has no idea just where it is they were headed in actuality.

"Well there's not a lot left t'eat in the camper, we should prolly hit a grocery store at some point,"

"Where _are_ we headed, anyway?" Scout asks curiously, Sniper simply pushing his glasses so they settle once more on the bridge of his nose.

Jack pretends to take a bad inhale of his cigarette, the man in no rush to admit to the Bostonian that he had plans to take him back to his home city. Of course this had not exactly been within the realm of the Australian's original plans—hiking in the Northwest had very much been the shining attraction of his leave.

The change of destination stemmed from his initial decision to make a stop at a pay phone at one of the many rest stops along the way to the Pacific some three days ago. The car sickness and cramping in Sniper's leg dictated an unforeseen break in their wayward expedition. Scout was getting antsy, thus the brisk air and open space had done them both some good.

Willing himself not to vomit, the man gave the hyperactive Bostonian any piece of silver change he found within the confines of his pocket, hoping it would get him off his back and leave him time alone with deeply channeled breaths and nurtured nerves.

He'd gone through three cigarettes by the time he realized Scout was even dancing about the payphone, scratching his chin and debating internally with the dynamic question (as well as its answers) of whether or not he really _would_ give Ma a short ring. It wasn't until Jack had coaxed and calmed the jittering Lawrence that Scout slid the dimes into their designated slot. Though regardless of Sniper's supportive words and calming gestures, Scout still stood confronted by the landline, the blank dial tone the auditory trail back _home_. And it terrified him.

It had taken five whole minutes of calm reassurance from Sniper for the young man to actually dial his own number, though he could still sense that Lawrence's paranoia of Luc answering the phone still coursed within him—by Scout's straight back and the way his molars grinded against his bottom row of teeth in their idled wait.

Sniper had intended to give his friend the privacy he deserved, sauntering back to the van, engaged with the fourth cigarette of the break.

It still came as no surprise to the Australian that no amount of aimless distance would muffle the sounds of Scout's longing tone and the sorrowful sway of his pleading words; Scout was just _loud_ as it was, but Sniper was blessed with the gift of fully functioning senses—he couldn't miss Scout's parted, strained brow and wavering voice begging for the comfort of his home, brothers and mother even if he wanted to. The anguish and disappointment in his's homesick demeanour was simply too far gone beyond anything Jack was capable of ignoring.

He needed to be with them, by them, _them_ being the only ones beside himself Scout gave any sort of damn about. In that moment Sniper had to wonder if he wasn't being rather generous in that regard, associating himself with title of being "Damn giving" worthy in Lawrence's eyes.

It tore him to shreds, ambling his way back over to the lively boy and his hasty chat, hands submerged in his pockets and head craned to the gravel of the makeshift parking lot. He tried not to catch the dialogue, or hear the choke in his love's voice as he asked a million and one of the inanest of questions that had to Scout a million and one meanings.

The hand Sniper ran through the young man's hair and behind his ear had done the job to silently inform him that he'd run out of quarters and was probably racking up a fortune to her phone bill as well. With pursed lips and a cracked, "Love you too, Ma," Scout had been forced to cut it short, and never before had Sniper felt more villainous in his life.

Scout, in a hastened attempt to hide his frustration, had asked Sniper whether he wanted to call his own family in a hushed, quickened voice. After Sniper answered with the negative, Scout hadn't spoken another word that day, and instead sat with his head against the cold glass of his rolled up window. It was then that he knew that in order to make it to Boston from Montana, he'd have to drive at least another two or three days straight, with as few stops as possible—thankfully they still had a week in their favour.

Sniper knew in addition to the logistics of the sudden trip that the only way to make _sure_ they arrived without a hitch in the historical city would be to make sure Scout had no idea they were actually headed there. Scout would definitely protest the drive—Luc's presence would certainly sour Scout's agreement to the homeward visit, but Sniper figured that if he stayed in the van with Sniper and spent time with everyone outside of the Frenchman, conflict wouldn't escalate between them.

"_Heeeelllloooo_," Lawrence prods Sniper in the temple, dragging the Australian straight out of his retrospective.

"I asked where're we goin'?!"

"East," Sniper grunts.

"Seriously?! We're turnin' around after that _whole_ drive?! I thought you _wanted_ to go West?"

"_You_ said you hated the outdoors,"

"I—I didn't mean—you ain't gotta change shit around, just—just for _me_..."

"Already have by lettin' ya tag along in the first place, mate,"

"So then what are we gonna do in the East, huh? I can't think o'what we'd be doin' that we wouldn't be doin' out West,"

"Maybe see the city,"

"The city?"

Sniper nods, crushing the cigarette under his heel and standing from the ground, Scout rising instantaneously, as if their actions were conjoined exactly, a direct mirror of each other.

"_Answer me!_"

"Y'ain't gonna get nowhere with answers with that tone o'yours!"

"So what, you're just gonna ditch me on the side of the road again?!" Scout snaps, Sniper ignoring him and walking into the camper.

"Whatcha goin' in there, for?! I thought you didn't like bein' in the camper and on the side of the road!"

"I'm changin', ya nosy mutant! Wait outside 'nd make sure no one creeps by the van,"

Scout scoffs, arms folded as he looks left and right, the route absolutely blank and empty as it was before. He nearly charges after the dry Sniper minutes later as he emerges in fresh new clothes from the camper, giving Scout a playful slap on the shoulder as he revs up the van, gesturing for Scout to hop in as well.

"Look at you, now _you're_ soakin' wet," Sniper grumbles, his hand hooking behind Scout's neck, the other still clamped on the steering wheel.

"Drippin' all over the seat..."

"I ain't even drippin'!"

"Then why is there a giant wet spot where your arse is?!"

"'Cause you're a giant _fag_,"

"Funny, so're you!"

"Uh, _no_!"

"So what happens if we combine? Do we get some sort o'special power?"

Scout grumbles, Sniper's idle fingers still trailing gently along his neck and rubbing affectionately along his shoulder. "Yeah, like you don't like it!" Lawrence spits, hunching his shoulders instinctively as the tips of Sniper's fingers graze along the nape of his neck. "Over here touchin' me..." Scout adds, jumping slightly as turning his head to face the Australian connects their gazes—Sniper's utterly primal.

"How 'bout I pull over 'nd show ya just how much I _do_..."

The question itself is pointless, for Jack has already parked the van and unbuckled himself from his seat, his legs sprawled about as he leans in closer to Scout.

"_Nope_—"

"But for whatever reason you've got quite an erection formin' down there..."

"Prolly your stupid fuckin' accent,"

"Must be, 'nd it gets y'screamin' out for me t'fuck you harder in less than no time, love," Sniper whispers, the two further showing how easy it is to relapse into the scathing waltz the two'd learned to love the last two years.

"Fuck you..." Scout growls softly through narrowed eyes, their lids dropping lower as Sniper chuckles deeply. "Mnh, how I wish you would, love..." Scout gasps darkly in a quick breath as Sniper's fingers twirl across his cheek, as well as running a slow hand across the young man's thigh.

"Then maybe we could get to the end o'this cravin' o'yours; figure out whether or not ya really _do_ still have feelin's for the dames—or if it's jus' your body playin' tricks on ya,"

Sniper grins, pulling Scout gently onto his lap.

"What's some stupid ol' girl gonna give ya that I can't, eh?" Sniper whispers in Scout's ear, letting his lips kiss a trail along its edge. "Those don't look like the eyes of a bloke that wants a lady, love..." Jack teases the Bostonian he holds, Scout putting up no protest against the deep kiss they share seconds later. The kiss itself, Lawrence notes, is pleasurable as always—Sniper's soft but dominant lips and their puckering suction against his own is always a sensation to behold. Their clammy, rain spoiled flesh and the slippery friction of their clothing however serves as a mood killing contrast to the heat Sniper attempts to create between them—the heat Scout tries to maintain.

Somehow in the instance it all feels so foreign, each of Sniper's gentle smacks augmented distastefully as Scout's heart begins to trace. Wanting _out_, Scout writhes underneath his dominant frame, the stroking and affectionate kissing the young man normally _loves_ filling him with a myriad of contrarily oriented emotions. It all just felt so…_off_.

Maybe it was the uncomfortable position, the cramped confines of the van, Sniper's lusty enthusiasm, their cooled skin and its sickly slide, robbing them of warmth and energy. Their lukewarm breaths fan hazily over their faces, contaminating the already stuffy and still air. Who _knew_ what it was—Scout just wanted _out_.

Still, he hooks his arms around Sniper's neck, the man drawing in his legs and slipping his own arms around Scout's waist, their lips brushing against each others' in hungry aggression. Lawrence moans into the kiss as his tongue catches briefly in Sniper's teeth, and finally, Scout gives; he pulls back from Jack's snare. Thin threads of saliva connect the tips of their tongues as their kiss finally breaks, the young man pushing Sniper from off him just lightly.

"You feel disgustin', dude, go take a shower," Lawrence snaps, wiping his mouth.

"Disgustin'?!"

"Yeah, like a wet fuckin' raccoon or somethin'—"

"My hair's the only thing that's still wet! 'S you who's all soggy!"

"Well then maybe I just ain't in the fuckin' mood," Scout spits, growing irritated with Sniper's bumbling, apologetic mumbling.

"I thought you were likin' it?!" the Australian grunts, and a highly awkward silence plays out between them as Scout scoffs, glaring moodily out the window.

"Well sorry, love, I—I didn't know..."

After a quiet collective of minutes pass, Scout feels the rumble of the camper beneath him, the scent of gasoline strong, the engine loud in the wake of wordless air. Sniper was certainly hurt and whatever else, but Scout couldn't be bothered to care.

He'd always _liked_ to claim these sorts of things didn't bother him—that though he was a man of monogamous intimacy, he was still a _man_ at his core. Rose coloured eyes, serenades, the proclamation of _feelings_ and the thought of them stirring in his love making was far from Sniper's ideal sex life. It felt good and that was it—or so it was until the recent thought of Scout finding him repulsive brought a quiet worry to his face and posture.

Scout on the other hand hated the confrontation of the self insecurity of any sort wrought upon his conscious; the initial hurdle of finding Sniper attractive had been one thing. Accepting it for what it was had been something different entirely. To sit here now after the trauma of both events—and the realization and _acceptance_ of those events—retracting the declaration of eternal love, attraction, and admiration of his Sniper, his hero—all in the name of coincidentally nameless women with pretty faces.

He didn't _mean_ to imply Sniper was disgusting—though thoughts of kissing other men hadn't exactly meant what they used since dating Sniper in Scout's mind.

_'Sorry, Snipes…'_

Scout _wanted_ to hurl, but he knew that doing so would either irritate Sniper more (what with vomiting in the van would involve stopping to clean up the mess) or involve opening his mouth—and opening his mouth meant he'd have to actually_utter_ a word at the silent, calm but fuming Australian, or that the bile he traps in his intestines would find its way out.

Lawrence swallows heavily, only just now realizing the low resonance of whatever old big band Jack was listening to this time had been working as a mediator for conversation this whole time. "Y'got your ID on ya, love?" Sniper asks suddenly, his voice eerily high, as if he were trying to manually steer it into a cheerful pitch.

Scout raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly nonetheless. The Australian mumbles something but doesn't seem too bothered about making it intelligible, so Scout simply accepts the grunts for what they are and doesn't press for a translation. He must have expected Scout to ask why, though Scout does not give him the pleasure of confirmation of his suspicions. Sniper also shows no signs of divulging any further details—Scout simply lies his boggy head on the cool glass of the window instead.


	14. The Biology od Things Part Trois

Scout jumps as a pair of hands shake his frame awake, the van completely dark, the engine off, the whole of the automobile stationary—the radiator smoking as Scout always knew it to…

"Wake up, love…"

Scout groans, twisting in his seat, the warm groove he'd nestled in the faux leather all too possessive of his groggy mass, and is the cause of his reluctance to heed Sniper's delicately spoken request.

Scout yawns as his frame slides and he feels himself land against Sniper, the Australian sitting the boy up, patting his cheek lightly. Eyes flickering open sluggishly, he sits up and brings his fingers to massage them subconsciously.

"Y'said you have your ID with ya, no?" Sniper asks calmly, Scout nodding, cracking his back.

"Why? We get stopped by the police or somethin'?" he yawns, pulling the card from out of his pocket and shoving it into Sniper's hand. "Y'want me t'hide in the camper like we practiced?"

"No, no—hold onto this, love, you'll need it…"

"Jack…?" Scout asks warily, eyes widening as he meets those of the man he addresses.

"'S'alright, we're not in trouble—now come with me into the camper, we need t'get ya all spruced up,"

"Dude, what're you plannin'?!" Scout's voice is muffled as Sniper pulls the young man's shirt above his head.

"For real, why you gotta strip me and have my ID?! Ah, _shit_, you shoulda told me to close my mouth!" Scout snaps as Sniper sprays him with a few spurts of rich, dark brown cologne, the smell heavy and bitter in his nostrils.

"_Seriously_," Scout glares, Sniper spraying yet more of the liquid across Scout's bare chest.

"Go put on some fresh undies'nd a nice pair o'pants—don't just gape at me, _do it_!" Sniper growls, Scout raising an eyebrow, doing as told regardless.

"What do ya mean, _nice_?" Scout calls from the sleeping room.

"Not ratty'nd soakin' wet—'nd why don't ya throw on that blue shirt o'yours? Suits ya,"

"What, are you enterin' me in one o'them beauty pageants or some shit?!"

"Not exactly,"

"_Exactly_?!"

"You'll still wanna not smell _too_ repulsive where we're goin'—ya ready?"

"I—I dunno, 'cause I have _no idea where we're goin' or what we're doin'_!"

Sniper smirks, nicking his head and implying for Scout to follow him.

Scout sighs heavily as they stand in what appears to be a mildly packed parking lot, Scout placing his hands behind his head and staring about with disinterest.

:"We stoppin' to eat? Hey, _hey_, what the fuck?!" Scout squirms as Sniper grabs hold of him, parting his hair into a dapper style with a small black comb.

"Only if you're hungry for the truth, mate…"

"Why're you bein' so weird and cryptic, Jack?! Would you just tell me what the fuck is goin' on?!"

"Well—we're gonna figure out what your deal is with dames," Sniper answers simply, Scout stopping midstride and throwing the Australian a raised eyebrow.

"Seriously?! And how do you plan on doin' that out here?!" Scout laughs disbelievingly.

"_Huh_?!"

Sniper stands silent as it becomes more and more apparent that an aggressive, hysterical tirade was bound to escape from Scout any second.

"You drag me out here, in the middle of fuckin' _nowhere_, don't tell me shit about nothin', where we're goin', or _why_, and I'm just supposed to fuckin' follow you?!"

Sniper's smirk only warrants an irritated groan from Scout, his glare that he directs at the Australian one of utter mistrust. Though as Sniper beckons Scout with the flick of his wrist, the young man, albeit skeptical, cannot help but be obedient and follow him.

"And who said I even had a _deal_…" he snaps, shoving Sniper poutingly as he slows his stride so that it matches Sniper's exactly.

"Seriously, Jack…"

"Get out your ID, love—" Sniper instructs lightly, producing his own.

Scout grabs hold of Sniper as the two approach a set of black iron doors, Scout wrinkling his nose as a distinct smell of rich whiskey and expensive tobacco floats somewhere just beyond the barricades of the very entrance Sniper nonchalantly leads them to.

"After you, love" Sniper grins, holding the door open for the thoroughly perplexed Scout. A humid air hits him instantaneously; Scout even makes a motion to plug his nose, a muffled, beatless drone of music seeping through the walls, the entirety of the building's structure and insides being completely black.

"Jack, what the hell?!" Scout turns around and asks his lover anxiously, Sniper however responding by taking his brim hat from atop his head, grinning devilishly behind his shades.

"This way."

He grabs hold of Scout's hand, leading him gently down a corridor that smells again of the same sweet tobacco and careless amounts of alcohol.

"How do you know where we're goin'?! And _how_ do you know where we—?!"

Scout freezes in his tracks as the corridor leads to a smokey lounge, lethargic men scattered about in plush couches and chairs, glasses in hand as they cheer on various women, women who seem eerily unclothed, their dances slow, seductive—

'_Did this crazy ass fucker really just bring me to a strip club in the middle of nowhere_?!'

"…What the Hell is the matter with you, Jack?!" Scout whispers, though by time he twists his head to ask the man outright, he notices Sniper has already seated himself directly in front of a busty red head who dances atop a hot pink catwalk, topless and in glittering, clear heels.

"Like what ya see?" Sniper asks curiously, raising his eyebrows suggestively over his glasses.

"C'mon, take a seat and relax, love," Sniper gives Scout a loving slap on the shoulder with the back of his hand, the Aussie lighting up a cigarette and proceeding to sit lazily, legs spread in trusting comfort.  
>Sniper watches the woman, expression relaxed albeit neutral, Scout however stunned, eyes wide and glassy as he, for the first time in his life, takes on the full sight of the naked female form in close proximity. He doesn't even <em>feel<em> his jaw drop or his lips part, nor does he sense a drying urgency in his eyes from his sudden incapability to blink—or even support the notion of such an action…

Scout swears that this woman, this nameless, beautiful woman, eyes him too with that same silent passion with which he gazes unto her. As she completes her circular pattern along the pole, she drops her lids and licks her lips, Scout getting a clear view of the caked layers of powder blue eyeshadow and its subtle, flesh colour fade into her browline.

If only it wasn't the same colour his mother used, maybe it would actually be sorta hot…

"Go 'head 'nd take it in, mongrel…" Sniper grunts, hand massaging Scout's shoulder, his head leaned back completely as he blows smoke through his nostrils.

Scout sighs, eyes still rooted on this woman and her dance. It's quiet, save the drunken hollers of the men a few tables over and the sultry psychedelic tune that emanates from some unseen speaker.

So maybe this wasn't exactly how he envisioned his initial encounter with a naked woman to play out; maybe he saw it all with a bit more finesse glazed along the edges of his daydreams, in a nice bedroom somewhere, with a sweet young lassie he'd worked on wooing for months—and had ultimately managed to charm through sheer swarthy allure.

Scout _supposed_ he could see the skeletal basics of what he imagined in the reality of things—then again sitting in a humid, smokey titty bar in the middle of nowhere (that Scout sees thanks to a purple neon sign near the bar is cleverly named "Nipplopolis") with your boyfriend isn't anything _finesse_ would have anything to do with.

Did it say something about him, that his first time seeing a naked woman was at a strip club at twenty four years old?!

"Why in the world're you so stiff, gremlin? You're prolly makin' 'er feel like she's doin' a bad job…" Sniper chuckles, and Scout nearly jumps off the couch, Sniper's voice startles him so.

"Here, drink one o'these—might calm ya a bit…"

Scout's lips point into a skeptical frown as the man shoves a glass under his nose, the dark brown contents swishing sickly in the glass.

"The fuck is this?!"

"Whiskey'n iced tea—figured you'd be a pansy about it'nd want your liquor with summin' sweet,"

Scout snatches the drink from Sniper's grip, taking a hearty gulp and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, throwing Sniper a casual middle finger, eyes still on the naked woman before him.

"Beaut', no? Got an exceptional rack,"

"Didn't know you still liked tits,"

"Bein' gay doesn't make you _blind_, Lawrence," Sniper rolls his eyes.

"'Nd clearly she has udders like bloody watermelons."

Scout concentrates harder on these very "melons", his tongue slipping from in between his dried lips.

"You look like you're takin' a math test, mate—calm _down_, 's 'all good…jus' play it natural…"

"Oh sorry, didn't know I had to look a certain way at a fuckin' strip club," Scout rolls his eyes.

"You could try lookin' a little less like a virgin; 's a bit embarassin', since I gotta be associated with ya 'nd all that,"

"Uh, last time I checked I'm old enough to buy my own beer and cigarettes, so you can go sit your ass somewhere else if that's really how it is,"

"Jus' 'cause the card says those things, doesn't exactly mean they're a hundred percent true,"

Sniper chuckles, sighing lightly.

"The drink settlin' in yet?"

Scout shrugs, and a few men at a nearby table throw bills onto the catwalk, the woman bending to pick them up, blowing her fans a sexy kiss.

"'Ey, love!" Sniper calls, Scout grimacing at Sniper's holler.

_'Love is my nickname, what the fuck, Jack…'_

"T'day's my mate's twenty first birthday, wanna give 'im somethin' special?!" Sniper winks and jerks his head in Scout's direction, his gaze exceptionally sexy and seductive, Scout mentally notes, though it still doesn't stop him from leaning in the man's ear frantically.

"Dude, no it ain't—!" Scout hisses.

"They don't know that, 'nd if you say it is then the nice ladies'll give ya a free lapdance,"

"You cheap ass bastard,"

"I sure as Hell ain't payin' if I'm not getting' immediate enjoyment outta any o'this,"

Sniper points to the catwalk, the woman placing a heel to the ground, swiveling her hips in a sexy stride to the two.

"Go 'head, now, Lawrence," Sniper smirks as the woman lowers herself onto the young man's lap, Scout visibly jumping, gasping as his eyes lock onto her own.

"So Lawrence is the name, hm?" She giggles, bringing her finger to bop the tip of his nose, the young man's eyes meeting it frantically.

"Cute name for a cute boy," She winks and growls huskily, Sniper's displeased growl going unnoticed, though not by the alleged "birthday boy".

Scout swallows before nodding, the woman placing her hands so they grip onto his front, Scout's own arms finding their way awkwardly around her bare hips, the woman's long, thin legs curling at Scout's waist.

"Don't be nervous," she growls, falling into a fit of girlish, youthful laughter as Scout, in a fit of lusty bravery, brings his lips to her neck and massages her breasts.

It certainly isn't _bad_, Scout notes in a state that grows less and less cohesive as the alcohol from before kicks in. Nowhere near as satisfying as his peers and boyhood had always made womanly indulgences out to be, but—

Regardless, Scout loosens up and entertains her, the woman treating him to a lapdance that would drive any heterosexually oriented man to pure, sex driven madness.

Though whether he _feels_ the enthusiasm he pretends to exalt…Hell, he doesn't even have an erection…

"Oh, you boys!" She winks, swinging her legs and hoisting herself from Scout's lap.

"I hope your '_mate'_ has a birthday, too!" She winks at Scout, the young man laughing in a pathetic attempt at natural, careless joviality, though it's a marvel at just how quickly his smile fades, how darkly he eyes the woman who unknowingly makes advances on a taken man.

"Where you from, huh? England? Scotland?"

"Oi, I'm from Down Under, dollface," Sniper winks, the woman absolutely swooning at what Scout presumes is Jack's accent. It _was_ pretty damn sexy…

"We _never_ get Australians," She giggles, Scout mocking her silently, scrunching his face and quietly imitating her girlish laughter.

"You have a woman back home?"

"Sure don't," Sniper sighs, Scout sitting up and furrowing his brow.

"_Hey wait a sec—_!"

"How can a man like you _not_?!"

"Hm—Maybe the dames in Adelaide just have poor taste, puppet," Sniper whispers.

"Clearly they do! Oo, look at you! And those sideburns!"

Scout's expression is downright murderous. He can think of nothing more than chopping the very fingers that stroke the man's aforementioned sideburns off and crushing them under those glittering heels.

"JACK!" Scout shrieks as the woman brings Sniper into a soft kiss, the man chuckling into it, casting his shades aside.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Scout roars, jerking Sniper from underneath the woman as she makes to undo his red button down.

"'S wrong, love? Jus' enjoyin' a nice little smooch—"

"FUCK YOU, WE'RE LEAVIN'!" Scout snaps, and Sniper rolls his eyes as he catches a brief glimpse of Scout's glassy ones.

"Sorry to cut it short, love, you know how jealous boys can get—Lawrence, _Lawrence_!" Sniper calls after the young man who stalks fumingly out of the club, the man careful to grab his hat and vest along the way out.

"Lawrence! S—Slow _down_, love!" He sputters after Scout, buttoning the undone buttons, the sound of his feet hitting the gravel just barely masking Scout's heavy breathing..

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT SHIT IN THERE?!"

"What shit?!"

"CALLIN' HER LOVE, AND—AND—!" Scout studders, kicking the ground and balling his fists.

"YOU JUST STARTED MAKIN' OUT WITH HER! SHE WAS ALL OVER YOU, AND—DON'T YOU FUCKIN' TOUCH ME!" Scout growls, slipping from under Sniper's grip as he goes to hug him.

"IT WAS THAT EASY FOR YOU TO FORGET ABOUT ME, HUH?!"

"Oh and I guess it was all dandy when I was just supposed to sit there 'nd not say a word while she humped your cock 'nd you squeezed her bloody—" Sniper scoffs before he can finish his sentence, throwing his arms into the air, Scout stationary, eyes narrowed and chest heaving.

"I DIDN'T ASK YOU TO FUCKIN' BRING ME HERE! I DON'T EVEN WANNA KNOW HOW YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS FUCKIN' PLACE TO BEGIN WITH!"

"I—it's a long story—a story for another day, now calm down, you're overreacting—"

"Overreacting?! You were the one who sat there and denied being with me, right in my fuckin' face!"

"I didn't deny anythin', Scout! She asked me if I had a lady 'nd I told her the truth! What was I supposed t'tell her, that I was a married man with three kids 'nd a house lookin' t'commit a little adultery tonight?"

"You—you're with _me_," Scout whispers sheepishly, as if displaying such a longing for Sniper killed him so.

"I was supposed to tell her I was with you?" Sniper raises an eyebrow.

"That sort o'thing isn't exactly somethin' you should be shoutin' from the rooftops, love—in case you've forgotten, not a lot o'people find the idea o'two blokes together a very wholesome one—plus it wasn't like I was gonna tell her, 'yeah, Lawrence is my boyfriend, but he won't let me fuck 'im anymore 'cause he thinks he likes ladies again, so I'm just here to see if he really does or not,"  
>Scout blanches, opening his mouth to speak, though settling with scratching behind his neck as no actual words come out.<p>

"_What_?!"

Sniper walks past him and back toward the van, producing his keys, unlocking the van and climbing in accordingly.

"Hey don't you fuckin' walk away from me!" Scout snaps, wrenching open his own door and climbing into the van moodily.

"I took you here for your sake, Scout; you said you didn't know how you felt about women, 'nd what better place to answer that question than at a strip club? What better way to answer it than to confront you with hordes o'cute, naked women who'll touch ya if you pay 'em enough?"

"Seriously?! _That's_ what you meant by this shit?! You make it sound like I'm some confused little boy!"

"'Cause that's how you're makin' _yourself_ look, Scout,"

"So then you take me to a titty bar? Really?!"

Sniper shrugs.

"Forget that you even knew about this place to begin with; you prolly go to these places and make out with them _whores_ all the time, you cheatin' prick," Scout spits, though he yelps as Sniper wrenches him so that Scout faces him, Sniper's hands digging into his shoulders.

"Listen t'me," Sniper begins, placing his glasses aside calmly onto the dashboard.

"Let's get one thing straight right here, right now, love; I would never, _ever_ cheat on you,"

Scout's eyes do not waver nor does he blink, the serious gaze Sniper holds just as steadfast in his sincerity.

"I don't like women, Lawrence—I don't have my eyes on any other bloke, neither— you have my attention, my love, _all_ of it—'s me that has to worry about _you_," Sniper reminds him, unable to help the escalation of desperation in the voice he attempts to keep even.

"What?! Why?" Scout gasps incredulously, Sniper emitting a single, low chuckle.

"You're a charmin' boy, love, 'nd you said yourself you've lost your attraction for me these last couple weeks…"

"Nah, that—that ain't what I said, 'nd that ain't what I meant by it, either," Scout corrects quickly.

"I—I ain't ever had feelings like these, Jack—not just for another dude, but for _anyone_…"

"Really now?" Sniper smiles smally, and the engine of the van makes a small creaking noise as it still cools down in its idled state.

It's silent for a few seconds, and the faint bass from the club can be heard if one were to listen for it. A few lights that align the roof of the aforementioned club cast a sideways glare of light across the windshield, the light reflecting in thin bows across their faces, the rest of the van otherwise cast about in darkness.

Scout laughs a short and quiet laugh at the residual sound of the corny music.

"Yeah," Scout nods, and Sniper starts up the van, pulling out of the parking lot.

"Really."

"…So then I'm your first—romantic—_thing_—" Sniper clears his throat and mutters some ten minutes later, the two already back on the road.

"Yeah,"

"And? How'm I holdin' up?"

"Huh?"

"Am I alright? You enjoyin' it so far?"

"You're so weird, Jack…" Scout chuckles, shaking his head and resting his temple against his knuckles, his elbow against the window.

"What?! 'S just a question, love…"

"Yeah,"

"Yeah what?"

"Yeah, I—I'm likin' it,"

"…'Cause I worry 'bout that, Lawrence—I worry that maybe it's all too much for ya, that I'm completely terrible for ya…"

"Why?"

"'Cause — 'cause I'm getting' paid t'_kill_ ya, 'nd sometimes I can be a bit of a git—I know I'm not always the sweetest o'blokes, 'nd I get impatient with ya—a _lot_," Sniper explains.

"I jus' don't know how to be around _people_, love; I despise them and I've spent so much time away from them that sometimes I forget that maybe you'd prefer a bit of healthy, human interaction,"

"You sound like a whackjob,"

"I'm not the one you should go for if you're lookin' for a good time out with a friend," Sniper puts it bluntly. "Or anythin' resemblin' any sort of socialization for that matter,"

"So then…am I burdenin' ya? Ya know, 'cause I'm always with ya, in the camper, and after missions, and on weekends, and—"

"Any free moment we have?" Sniper chuckles, Scout swallowing at his finished sentence.

"If you were _anyone_ else, I woulda shot myself by now—'nd I don't mean that t'make you feel bad, or feel like you're botherin' me—I give ya shit'nd say you're an annoying little gremlin—which you _are_, don't get me wrong—but,"

Scout lifts his head as Sniper suddenly stops in his monologue, the young man turning to face him, awaiting the closure of his sentence curiously.

"But?"

"…I don't know what I'd ever do without you."

Scout has a feeling that both of them are thankful the excuse of Sniper driving is the reason for his fixed gaze upon the road.

Sniper would rather die than have Scout see the heartfelt moisture that wells in his eyes—and Scout would _definitelty_ do anyone who saw the adoring smile on his face in.

Both allow Sniper's comment to settle between them for a few seconds, Sniper clearing his throat shortly thereafter.

"So did you like the dance?"

"What? Oh. It—it was alright—I—I guess,"

'_I wanted to like it…_'

"Just alright?"

"I mean, she was hot—_it_ was hot, but—"

"You like blokes?" Sniper asks in an almost hopeful voice, Scout sighing and nodding curtly.

"I just don't get it, Snipes. Growin' up I was horny as _shit_, jerkin' over chicks left and right. Luc had this _huge_ ass stack of Penthouse magazines. Ma never knew about 'em, right? 'Nd Luc said I could borrow 'em as long as I promised not to tell her—those were the only times I didn't completely hate him—

Anyway—Jack, I was—I hid it well, but _damn_ dude, it seemed like I was always walkin' around with an erection, and I was always whackin' it,"

"Mhn…"

"But then I—I'm deployed out to the 'Fort, and…"

"Y'wanna know why you're in love with a bloke when you were so secure in your sexuality growin' up?"

Scout nods.

"Don't take this the wrong way, love, but you've never even _had_ relations with a woman—"

"I—I mean come on, I kissed a couple girls in high school! Nothin' serious, but—I—I was always playin' around with my brothers, doin' well in school, tryin' not to fucking _kill Luc_—I wasn't tryin' to start nothin' with them…"

"Right…"

"But that still don't explain nothin',"

"Look Lawrence, I'm sure things woulda turned out a lot differently providin' things'd gone the way life goes for most people; get a job or a career, stickin' around in Boston. Maybe you woulda met a real nice dame t'dine 'nd take home 'nd show Mum. Maybe you woulda met a few of 'em 'nd even settled down with one.

The point is thought you joined BLU and got yourself caught up in war to clear yourself of a criminal record—that right there is unique in its own right! 'Nd lemmie tell ya, war changes ya—'s not good, 's not bad, but you change—add that to the fact that time'll change ya no matter what 'nd you find that you're a whole 'nother person than what you ever though yourself t'be. It only shows you how little you truly know about yourself…"

Sniper takes the keys out of the ignition, looking around and seeing the man has them parked in a secluded, forested rest stop. The sounds of the highway can be heard outside the van.

"I'm gonna turn in, love," Sniper smiles, and Scout instantly follows the Australian as he exits the vehicle, placing another key into the camper door.

"Hey! N—not yet, you haven't even answered my question!"

"This is the sort o'talk I'd rather have in my 'jammas under the covers,"

"Alright, Jack, but talk and change, talk and change!" Scout demands, dancing on his heels as Sniper lifts his shirt over his head, cracking his lower back and rummaging through his bedside dresser.

"I'm not sayin' you never liked girls, but you gotta admit, it's hard to miss a sex life or orientation you never had experience with in the first place,"

"I still _wanted_ to fuck 'em—_you_ were the one with the limp dick,"

Sniper chuckles, pulling a wife beater and stretching it across his chest, unzipping his slacks.

"But war is the greatest exception mankind will ever know—only somethin' like war, where you're always faced with death, would drive you to fall in love with the very man who comes closest to ending you every day," Sniper sighs, tossing the pants aside lazily.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Jack,"

Sniper stands in silent shock the first few seconds Scout presses himself against him, his hands curling into his thick brown hair and craning his head downward so Scout can better grasp his lips with his own.

'_Musta said the right thing…_' Sniper chuckles internally, responding to Scout's affectionate attitude with a tight embrace and long, heartfelt kisses.

"I don't think it's a question of man or woman, love…" Sniper sighs, his eyes half lidded with weariness, traveling slowly across Scout's face, the man sinking into the comfort of his mattress, the weight of Scout lying ontop of him blocking any escape from his blankets' warmth.

"I think we're dealin' with somethin' much bigger than somethin' as simple as that."


	15. Ill Intentions

"_Fuck_, Jack;" Scout huffs a final time as the entirety of his mass collapses onto Sniper beneath him, whose arms still wrap around the young man completely. The Australian sighs as his curled finger tips graze along Scout's back and along his hips, his hands the only appendages not frozen completely in residual ecstasy.

Scout's face is scrunched while the final dregs of euphoria drain themselves from within him, dissipating in invisible waves of live, static energy into the heated air of the sleeping room. As he closes his eyes and presses his ear against the sweaty chest of his Sniper, Scout can sense that below his calm exterior his heart still races, his lungs still working to catch up to the beat of the organ.

The covers rustle as Scout stretches his legs and lifts his head to catch a better glimpse of the Australian and the expression he dons in this moment. Eyes closed softly, as if behind them Sniper attempts to pull himself back onto a ground anchored somewhere within a realm of plausibility, the younger of the two men watches him swipe through his own thick brown hair, ending the display with the emission of a closing sigh.

"That oughta remind ya just _why_ it is you're in such a fit t'share a bed with me in the first place…" Sniper mumbles with careless, fast paced breathiness, his hands smoothing over Scout's bottom. Their bodies cool down, and the sweat (among other things) that pooled between them stagnates in their pores and seeps into the light yellow sheets.

"Better'n any Sheila, that I can promise ya, Lawrence…"

Scout complies as Sniper slips a come soaked finger in between his reddened lips, moaning as his tongue curls along the length.

"Hm?" Sniper asks with seductive innocence, Scout unable to resist the Australian any longer and leaning closer against him, hovering about the man as Scout binds them both with a gentle kiss.

"All that worryin' for nothin', mate,"

"I wasn't worryin' 'bout nothin'…" Scout snaps in a contrarily content sigh, nuzzling his head to rest in the crook of Jack's neck.

Sniper's eyelids drop as his cheeks press upward in a quiet, disbelieving smirk, a smirk that ultimately accompanies a haughty but unargumentative "hmph". Ever since the events at the strip club, Scout had been rather cautious about slipping head on into any sort of lusty doings with the Australian. Sniper figured he was still "confused" — It had taken nearly an hour to coax the Bostonian into indulging the blatant sexuality that had overcome him. By time Sniper'd convinced the young man he'd held in his lap to put an end his tremulous hesitancy and give into Sniper's seduction, nine AM had nearly approached completely—and he would have _preferred_ they were on the road by ten at least.

"I'll be surprised if you can even picture what a girl would _look_ like after a buggerin' like that," Sniper gloats, his sneer as snide as it is wide.

"Y'can't even say anythin' back, you're still all shook up…"

Sniper curls the hand that cradles the back of Scout's head, the man sitting up slowly—Scout instantly groaning moodily, obviously displeased with Sniper's shifting (an implication that it was time to get up).

"'C'mon, we've got a day ahead of us 'nd plenty o'road we need t'put behind; if you can even _stand_ after a thrashin' like that," Sniper smirks, placing his feet to the floor.

"Fuck you…" Scout, who lies face down against the bed, mumbles into Sniper's now vacated pillow.

"You don't even need me to drive, can't I just stay in here?"

"You could, but once we start headin' East I'm gonna need ya next t'me—directions,"

"Do I look like a fuckin' map to you?"

"A bloke who just got the fuckin' of a lifetime's more like it, love…" Sniper growls, zipping his dark brown slacks, buttoning them around the width of his thin waist.

"Ew, you ain't even gonna fuckin' bathe?! After—y'know…"

"Oi, we either sleep in 'nd fuck or eat breakfast 'nd shower—can't do both on the schedule we got,"

"Fuckin' gross, Snipes…"

"'S not my fault you were itchin' for a rompin',"

"Would you stop sayin' that?!" Scout snaps, instantly flushing and sitting up himself; there was no chance of catching anymore sleep at this point.

"Don't move too suddenly, now, just 'cause I ain't in ya that doesn't mean it won't feel like I'm not…"

"If you don't shut your mouth I'm gonna deck ya in it 'til it stays shut,"

"I was kinda hopin' you were gonna threaten t'shove your dick in it…"

"Ah, jeeze," Scout shakes his head, careful to make sure Sniper is out of sight before he winces, easing his way to his feet—so maybe Sniper'd been right, their latest "session" really had done a number on his _body_.

"Seriously though, dude, you ain't even gonna shower?" Scout asks again, lip curled in silent disgust as he brushes past the man in the kitchenette.

"You could always lick me clean…"

"Fuck you, no, that's gross—I ain't lickin' dried spunk off your nasty ass…"

"'S not like we'll be getting' out, we got a whole day o'drivin' ahead,"

"I don't wanna be stuck sittin' next to your jizz drenched self!"

"We don't have time for squabbles, love, we're runnin' late..."

"Yeah, how 'bout you say somethin' you haven't already _said_ a thousand and one fuckin' times," Scout snaps, grabbing the coffee pot and serving himself a mug—until Sniper scrambles to snatch the ceramic from Scout's unwrapped hands.

"'S no way in Hell your arse is drinkin' coffee—"

Scout says nothing, but instead settles with a particularly evil glare Sniper'd long since learned to ignore—it's not as if Scout actually went through with any of the shit he threatened him with.

"You're gonna be all over the walls, talkin' nonstop—'nd don't forget coffee goes right through ya, you'd have to stop t'tinkle every two minutes—"

"How many times I gotta tell ya I ain't a fuckin' toddler?! So you need to quit treatin' me like one—"

"Why don't ya bring your colourin' books with ya, just for when you get bored—"

"Why do ya gotta be such a dick? Why?!" Scout huffs, folding his arms whilst Sniper downs the last of his coffee, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"'S no fun, is it?! You always like bein' a cheeky little shit, 'nd now you're seein' that shit ain't cute—can't catch a break with you,"

"Whatever, I just can't believe I'm stuck in a fuckin' piss van with a wanker covered in jizz that drinks his coffee black,"

"Oi, what's my coffee preference got t'do with anythin'?! 'Nd it's not _wankurrrr_, love—it's _wanker_,"

"'S what I said!" Scout snaps, Sniper rustling his hair before placing the mug down and headed out of the camper and pulling the keys out of his pocket.

-

"You know, Snipes, this is only the _fifth thousandth_ time I've fuckin' asked, but where the Hell are we headed?"

Scout awaits the answer in silence (much to Sniper's surprise), rolling his eyes however as Sniper raises his brow, concealing the answer himself.

"Unless, you know—I ain't supposed to know,"

Sniper shrugs, Scout thinking just a little before his eyes widen and a smile graces his face.

"Either you're tryin' to find somewhere nice and quiet where you can dump my body—or it's a surprise!"

"It can't be somethin' in between?" Sniper sighs guiltily.

"What the fuck would come between murderin' me and surprisin' me with some place cool?!"

_'Boston'_, Sniper snaps mentally, though his shoulders heave heavily as he sighs with scathing impatience.

"Yeah—was jus' kiddin'—'s a surprise,"

"Why you gotta sound so annoyed, though?" Scout asks smally at Sniper's tone, shrinking in his seat. "I hope you ain't annoyed…"

"Wishful thinkin', I've been stuck with ya for five days 'nd I still got a week t'go,"

"Why can't you just act like a boyfriend for once?!" Scout whines, smirking slightly and holding in a few chuckles at Sniper's torturous, drawn out groan.

"What in the bloody Hell is that supposed t'fuckin' mean?! _'Act like a boyfriend'_…"

"Maybe you could just be like, _'Yeah, Lawrence, I got a surprise for ya, 'cause I love you so much'_, or _'I wanna do somethin' special for ya 'cause I love you so much'_,"

"You _want_ me t'barf all over ya love?!"

"No, I just wanna date a non-jerk for a minute—"

"Since when—?! Ah, fuck it," Sniper shakes his head, eyes on the road.

"You're always sayin' you don't wanna be around me and that spendin' time with me is a pain, 'nd I wanna know why!"

"'Cause you're a bloody brat!"

"Still ain't shit you should be sayin' about someone you claim to love, Snipes—you'd think _lovin'_ me would mean you like bein' around me," Scout pouts.

"Since when d'_you_ give a shit about this sort o'thing?!"

"I ain't sayin' you gotta shit hearts when you think about me, but I'd like t'think you don't find me _annoying_!"

"How can I not find ya annoyin' when it's practically your _job_?!"

"_Um_—"

"Seriously, don't think I don't see ya out there—ya get in a bloke's face, shoot 'im a bit, laugh like a bloody jackal 'nd then skip away—"

"Oh what, am I too fast for ya?!" Scout sticks out his tongue, sharing a one sided, hearty laugh.

"Heinrich told me this one time he was healin' me and he saw a red dot on my ass,"

"Maybe you sat on a ladybug—"

"He also said he looked up and saw you borderline fappin'—"

"You can tell this "Heinrich" t'shove it up his arse—"

"Bet you wish you could shove it up _my_ ass—"

"Already have, love," Sniper grins, patting his crotch.

"'Did ya forget already?! Or did I fuck the memory outta ya?!"

"Nah," Scout resigns, reddening as an ear splitting grin commands control of his lips.

"What're you smilin' about?!"

"Prolly the way you totally avoided my question,"

"What question?!"

"Where it is we're goin',"

"I told ya, it's a surprise—"

"I don't fuckin' buy it—"

"You better before I go in the camper 'nd hit ya with one o'them tranquilizers, love,"

"You _would_ have tranquilizers, fuckin' serial killer,"

"I'm a _Sniper_, love—"

"I'm a Scout, nice t'meet ya,"

Scout nearly falls underneath his seat, he laughs so hard. Sniper on the other hand finds contentment in mumbling and shaking his head irritably, Scout now humoured with himself to the point of tears.

"What'samatter, you can't take a freakin' joke?!"

"Shoulda left your arse in the camper…"

"Dude, I wanted to stay in bed, you were the one draggin' me outta it!"

Scout smirks at the hint of a smile Sniper attempts to mask with an unphased collectedness of himself.

"You say you hate me and that I annoy ya 'nd that you want me dead—"

"I never said that I wanted ya dead, love—"

"But you need me, you weren't goin' anywhere if I didn't get outta bed with ya,"

"Don't give me that bloody smile…"

"You're just pissed 'cause you love it and me,"

"I swear, Lawrence…"

"Say it,"

"I ain't sayin' lick shit—!"

"Say you love me!"

"I'm not sayin' a bloody word, mate!"

"So then you hate me?" Scout asks quickly.

"N—no—but—"

"So then fuckin' say it—say you love me," Scout snaps aggressively, Sniper biting down on his lip, deathly quiet seconds slipping past them both as the man clears his throat, uttering a few soundless syllables.

"What?! Oh I'm sorry I didn't catch that," Scout beams, bringing a hand to fan over his ear, leaning closer to the irritated Australian.

"I said…" Sniper rolls his eyes, Scout's grin almost childish in its expectancy.

He pulls the van to the side of the road, putting the vehicle on park.

"Your van's shittin' out on ya, Snipes, now it only takes a half hour before the thing starts smokin'—"

"Shh," Sniper hisses, Scout raising an eyebrow as the man faces him, expression soft and almost _affectionate_ as he reaches his arms out, placing his hands on Scout's shoulders.

"What, why we gotta be quiet?!"

Scout shudders as Sniper's arms extend so they pull him into a gentle embrace, the rough tips of his fingers smoothing over Scout's back even through the thin cotton of the young man's shirt.

Scout reigns the volume of his own breath in at the sound of Sniper's flaring in his ears, the younger of the two bringing an arm to hook around the Australian's neck.

"You gonna say it?"

"I said…" Sniper whispers, and Scout can feel as the man slides his tongue in between his own lips, for Sniper's mouth rests in the closest proximity possible against his ear.

Scout closes his eyes as Sniper's hands massage him into a soothing calm.

"…_PISS OFF YA WANKER!_" Sniper shouts in Scout's ear, laughing evilly as he jumps so harshly that Scout bumps his head on the roof.

"Ow, man—!"

"Aw, I'm sorry, love…" Sniper chuckles at the moaning Scout and his exaggerated display, bringing Scout's head to his lips and giving the point of impact a doting smooch.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, dinky di—didn't mean t'give ya a concussion…"

"I knew you were tryin' t'kill me!"

"Been tryin' the last three years, technically speakin'…"

"This ain't funny, Jack—I'm sittin' here, dead serious, and you can't even say you love me!"

"Why do I gotta say what you already know?!"

"How do I know if you don't tell me?!" Scout snaps.

"Actions speak louder than words, y'know…"

"Then you sure ain't doin' shit t'prove it,"

"You seriously gettin' riled up over there?! I thought this was all just for jokes, love—don't tell me you're seriously huffin' 'cause I'm not serenadin' ya like a bloody girl!"

Sniper sighs; if only he had a dime for every time he'd reduced Scout to a pouting mass of emotion on this trip alone…

Regardless, he starts the van, the two silent as they usually are was when one had managed to piss the other off indefinitely.

Scout truly does sit, rubbing his head, face scrunched, Sniper can't help but observe.

_'Maybe I should just say it to 'im…_ Sniper grumbles, casting the pathetic Scout another look.

It wasn't as if Sniper had never tried in the past. _Hell_, Sniper'd spent the last three years thoroughly lovestruck over the Bostonian—even if he'd kept it subdued. Last time he checked, Sniper was the one who'd been subjected to a horny, confused Scout and his various attempts to woo his pants off—only to turn around and accuse the Australian of being a "fag", insisting that his attraction to Sniper was nothing short of a primal lust, that being stuck on a "sausage infested battlefield" called for desperate measures; Sniper'd always left those conversations a little glum and hurt, if he could say so himself.

And even then Scout had been very finicky about his advances; some days he'd wanted Sniper to fuck him without restraint, in the middle of battle with an intensity that was sure to catch the attention of the others—other times he could barely utter the initial question of "Hey, wanna fuck?"

And of course Sniper never obliged—not until just a few days ago when Scout, after three years of one sided adoration from Sniper's end, finally admitted to Sniper an attraction of his own that extended beyond love making.

Barely a week as an official couple and Scout dares to act wronged, as if he too hadn't spent months denying Sniper the very words Scout accuses him of withholding from him. Scout can thank _himself_ Sniper hesitates to say them in return; the one time it slipped out in the past, Scout avoided him for three whole weeks.

"…Heyo, Snipes, could you do me a favour?" Scout asks lightly, Sniper raising a skeptical eyebrow at both the young man's tone and eventual request.

"Sure thing, mongrel—what do ya need?"

"I was just wonderin' if we could stop somewhere 'nd get some lipstick—"

"Lipstick?! What in all the bloody world're ya gonna do with _lipstick_?!"

"Put it on, what the fuck else?!"

"Why do ya wanna wear lipstick?!"

"'Cause if you don't love me, then I dunno what the Hell you see in me, and I'd like to at least look _pretty before getting fucked_!" Scout snaps, his brow furrowing the more he speaks, but Sniper simply rolls his eyes, saying nothing in return.

"I'm turnin' on the radio, mate—you can keep talkin', but I ain't necessarily gonna listen,"

"Such a dick—such a fuckin' _dick_…"

_'Since when does this little shit care about bein' sweet?!'_

"Look, I'm about this close t'shovin' your arse back in the camper—"

"Then do it!" Scout growls, jumping as Sniper pulls over and slams the driver side door, Scout's eyes following him as he stalks around the front of the van.

"Hey, hey, _hey_!" Scout yelps as Sniper drags him from his seat, wriggling the camper door open and pushing Scout's lean frame inside.

"Lay down'n take a nap!"

"Oh yeah?! 'Nd what if I lay down'nd never get back up?! What if I die in my sleep?! You're gonna regret sayin' shit, dude!"

"You're not gonna die in your bloody _sleep_—"

"Naw, I'm gonna fuckin' _shower_, unlike _your_ grody ass!"

Scout slams the door with a final flip of the bird at the Australian, and the two, much to their respective senses of surprise, manage to let the day pass by without another word.

-

Sniper lifts the pit of his arm to his nose yet again, the shock of the deep, bitter stench charging up within the channel of his nostrils, curling in smelly waves at his sensory receptors. He gags at the salty scent, his breath slamming in his throat as he sputters in an attempt to rid his mouth of the taste of body odor.

So maybe he could use a shower.

He'd reached a bit of a wall in driving anyway, what with being just outside of Boston and not exactly having any idea where it was Scout _lived_ within the city itself.

Only a sliver of the orange, descending sun can be seen over the horizon, and the headlights had an unbecoming tendency to flicker as of late (if it wasn't one thing it's another). Sniper, who hadn't possessed a valid license in ten years, certainly felt it wise to stray away from situations that would land him under the watchful eye of Highway Patrol or Sheriffs. Dodgy headlights certainly qualified as an eye catcher.

With this knowledge in mind Sniper knew it was certainly time to call it a night—without Scout to distract him or drain of him of the will to _live_, he managed to make a sizeable dent in mileage today—the non stop driving having ultimately cost him his energy.

_'How'n the world 'm I gonna get 'im t'tell me how t'get to his house without him figurin' it all out?!'_ Sniper rests his face tiredly in the palm of his hand, and as he sits alone in the darkened van, the engine popping and settling as the liquids within the heated machinery cool for the night, all the man can do is think while trying his best to ignore the crackling.

There were _many_ problems posing themselves, the more Sniper thought about this whole plan: they must have only been an hour south of Boston—Sniper was handy enough with navigation that he could assuredly get them downtown. _Getting_ to Boston wasn't the issue—but rather what Scout's reaction to finding himself in his hometown once more would be.

He certainly wouldn't comply once aware of Sniper's plan—thus comes the conundrum of just how Sniper is supposed to manipulate Scout into leading him to his apartment without him catching on.

He'd heard Scout mention a neighbourhood by the name of "Springfield" once or twice (Scout always accused Sniper of never paying attention when he talked, but little did he know that Sniper always hung onto every word). There was always the option of stopping somewhere and asking for directions to this specific neighbourhood; certainly within Boston someone at a local gas station or restaurant would be able to tell him where to go. Scout had always described it as being a very dangerous, run down slum of a community—definitely not anywhere Sniper would be advised to cruise the camper through slowly in an attempt to find the young man's apartment, clearly lost and susceptible to thuggish encounters.

Then again he _did_ have his damn rifle mounted behind him.

_'The only way this'll work is if Scout just wakes up, 'nd what does he know—he's home. I'll ask 'im for his address 'nd just keep drivin'—just gotta be careful with the lights…'_

But Sniper grumbles as the memory of their earlier squabble comes to mind—who was to say Scout would even hear the man out long enough for him to pose the question, let alone coax any sort of information out of him—not to mention he had a tendency to _question_, he would certainly want to know what for Sniper wanted to know the whereabouts of his childhood home…

Sniper locks up the van, taking a final sweep of the clearing in which he'd settled upon parking. Fumbling with his keys for the one specific to the camper, the Australian bites down on his lower lip as his hand pushes the handle and the door swings open, prepared for _anything_—who knows what could have been left to fester and ferment over the course of the day, with a moody, huffing Scout locked inside.

"Good _Lord_, 's that smell rancid," Sniper chuckles as he catches a whiff of his own sweat, tossing the keys on a small table and pulling his vest and button down over his head.

"'Ey, love! What d'you say we take a little shower together, huh?" Sniper booms lightheartedly, his smile faltering however as Scout does not return Sniper's proposal with either an answer confirming or denying his agreement to Sniper's suggestion.

"Scout, don't tell me you're still ignorin' me 'cause o'earlier," Sniper scoffs, folding his sunglasses and cracking his back, the stalk of his thin legs hardly making a sound as his feet hit the floor. "'S been twelve hours, mate!"

Sniper gives Scout the courtesy of a few more quiet seconds, making his way toward the back of the camper all the while.

"Honestly now, you'd think a whole day by yourself woulda calmed ya down a little…"

Sniper smirks at the sight of the young man who rests upon his bed, curled in the sheets, his face completely smooth and calm, his breathing light yet audible.

"D'aw, mutant's absolutely knocked out."

Sniper sighs as he sits lightly on the edge of the mattress, observing his slumbering Scout in serene silence. Checking his watch, he only just now notices that perhaps Scout is well into sleep for good reason; midnight is only some twenty minutes away.

He jumps as Scout breathes in heavily, the young man's mouth agape slightly—though his breathing reverts to the same rhythm as before the initial snore.

"_Lawrence_…" Sniper chuckles, leaning across the bed and pulling Scout against him, careful to make sure he does not wake him. Scout doesn't stir as Sniper's hands brush against his face and curl affectionately along his body, the Australian kissing his temple softly.

"Love ya, gremlin, I really do…"

Sniper kisses the corner of his lips, his large, ungloved hands brushing through Scout's trimmed hair, rustling it in its wake.

"Fuckin' fag…"

It takes a few seconds for Sniper to realize Scout had actually spoken, his mouth agape as the slightly shifting Scout brings his arms so they wrap around the Australian.

"I ain't _completely_ asleep, y'know…" Scout mumbles into the crook of his Sniper's neck, eyes still closed.

"I tell ya what you wanna hear, 'nd then you call me a fag for it?" Sniper rolls his eyes, an unamused smirk curling along his lips on Scout's behalf.

"You coulda just said it—you didn't have to crawl in the fuckin' _bed_ with me…"

Sniper grimaces and sighs with silent impatience; ignoring Scout's scolding and instead expressing his quickly rising annoyance with the barely awake Bostonian with a heave of his chest, Sniper simply glares at the ceiling. It would figure his words would wake and irritate the young man—it certainly wasn't a new phenomenon, a pissed off Scout…

"Figures you'd get mushy with it," Scout snaps quickly before placing his hands against Sniper's cheeks and kissing him deeply, Sniper complying enthusiastically, smiling into Scout's groggy affection.

"'Cause the words aren't mushy on their own," Sniper huffs, his tone light with sarcasm.

"Did y'have a nice day all by your lonesome in the camper, love?"

"It was alright. Slept and shit, _showered_, ate some—your creepy ass wasn't there to annoy me…"

"You _almost_ sound disappointed," Sniper chuckles, bringing his arms tighter around Scout's shoulders, thus pressing the two even closer together.

"I wouldn't'a needed to be if your ass had just said you loved me," Scout snaps, balling his fist and punching it into Sniper's chest lightly.

"Well I do, Lawrence…" he grunts, shifting and settling his back against the springed mattress beneath him. "I'm tellin' ya right now…"

The corners of Scout's mouth twitch. A smile grows upon them, that Sniper can see—even if the one he holds is in a silent race to conceal it before it sprawls itself in complete radiance, mirroring the warmth within him.

"You sound like a fuckin' girl…"

"You're the one in my arms, shiftin' in my lap so you can get closer against me…"

"Piss off, wanker…"

"'S not _wankurr_—"

"Piss off, _wan-kah_—"

"Close enough,"

Scout sits up slightly, brushing his lips against Sniper's longingly.

"Strange, was expectin' for ya t'still be all butthurt 'bout earlier—you're a right sweetheart if you ever have been…"

"Don't call me a fuckin' sweetheart, dude…also you smell like shit,"

"Spoke too soon…"

"You can't _shower_ soon enough…"

"Alright, alright, I get it—Good Lord, I'm getting' up—came in actually t'ask if ya maybe didn't wanna shower with me?"

"Dude that thing ain't gonna fit for the both of us…"

"I'm pretty sure the dimensions o'the thing would be the last thing on your mind…."

"Yeah well, I'm tired, you're smelly—go go go, before I kick your ass back outside!"

"Like you could even pick me up with those scrawny little arms o'yours," Sniper grumbles, hoisting himself off the mattress and ambling his way to the cramped, compact bathroom.

"Don't tell me you used all the hot water…"

"Like I fuckin' keep track," Scout snaps from the other room, Sniper yawning and turning the shower knobs, relieved as steaming water comes billowing from the metallic head seconds later.

"Oi, Scout, would you mine bringin' me some 'jama pants? Forgot em,"

Scout's exaggerated, peeved growl at the man's request is heard even over the rolling water that pours against the small ceramic floor.

"How the fuck does thing thing even work, anyway?!" Scout spits, tossing the man his pants and leaning against the door.

"Well, you got a hot water tank, 'nd the water drains into another tank y'eventually gotta empty,"

"Sounds grody as Hell,"

"Yeah well it's there so that _you_ aren't—what did y'say?! _Grody_?!"

"What difference does it make if you ain't usin' it?!"

"I'm _tryin'_, love! If your arse would stop chattin' I coulda been out'nd all dried off by now!"

"Then get in there!" Scout barks, Sniper jumping as the young man's fingers fiddle with the button of his slacks, Scout pulling them down and tossing them over his shoulder.

"Oi, love! Don't just undress me—!"

"Like your ass doesn't like it!" Scout scoffs, lifting his own shirt above his head, grabbing Sniper's hands and placing them around his waist.

"Now are we takin' this shower or not?! I thought you freaked out about wastin' water," Scout smirks, his tone cocky, eyes fluttering shut as he pulls Sniper into yet another kiss, the man wasting no more time in relieving them both of their clothing—hardly a hint of attention was paid at the confines and the proximity their sudsy frames were forced to endure. "Love you, Jack..." Lawrence whispers quietly, resting his head against his wet, hairy chest.

-

"I ain't gettin' out of this fuckin' van, Snipes, I ain't gonna _fuckin'_ say it again!" Scout booms the next morning, bringing his fist behind his head, eyes steady on Sniper as he silently dares the man to come any closer.

"I can't believe you!" He hisses. Scout narrows his eyes as he awaits an explanation from the Australian—an explanation for just why they sit parked just feet away from his home, how long he'd been planning on taking him to Boston to begin with—what it is Sniper even _means_ by bringing him to Boston…

"_I can't fucking believe you_!"

He plops dully onto the mattress, the only place there was in the camper to even _sit_ in the first place. Grey sunlight casts itself from outside, the rays slanting and illuminating Scout's fiddling hands and the slow, absentminded twiddling of his dumbfounded fingers.

"'s _that_ why you asked me for my address last night?! Can't fuckin' believe it—what _right_ do _you_ have, draggin' me out here like this?!" Scout rises both physically and in the volume of his voice, Sniper taking a few steps backward as the Bostonian, though shorter than him in stature, grows almost violently angry.

"Lawrence, I—"

"Nah, Jack," Scout interrupts, Sniper's eyes watching Scout's fists rather carefully—the ones he currently balls from frustration.

"You—you drag me around, don't tell me shit about _where_, or—or _why_—"

"Hey, now, mate, _you_ were the one who practically came crawlin' t'me, beggin' that I let ya come with me!"

"YEAH, MAYBE I JUST WANTED TO BE WITH YOU! FINE, MAYBE YOU'RE SACRIFICIN' YOUR PRECIOUS _TWO WEEKS_, MAYBE I'M STOPPIN' YA FROM FUCKIN' DEER OR WHATEVER THE FUCK IT IS YOU DO—THAT DOESN'T JUST GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO DRAG ME AROUND LIKE YOU'RE THE FUCKIN' BOSS, LEAVIN' ME IN THE FUCKIN' DARK LIKE A KID!"

"I'm—you're not a _kid_, Lawrence, 'nd I know that—!"

"You sure as Hell like treatin' me like one!"

Scout utilses the silent pause in their argument to run a hand through his hair, cheeks expelling exasperated air as he, God willing, silently steels himself to conduct it all with an even, refined tone.

"I didn't sign up for this," is all he can finally say after a minute's contemplation—all he can say before he bites down on his lip, which in turn assists him in biting down on a few choice _words_, tantrum like anger reddening his face.

"First you tell me we're goin' West—alright, fine—you kick me out, leave me on the side of the road—what if Heinrich'd never found me, Jack?!"

"Good Lord, love, I was on my way t'turn around 'nd pick ya back up when the van broke down at that diner!"

"Then outta nowhere you just _decide_ to fuckin' _turn around_, after two days of nothin' but fuckin' sittin' in this fuckin' _van_, and you don't even give me the courtesy of tellin' me where the _fuck_ we're goin'?!"

"'Cause I knew you'd freak if I told ya—!"

"You ain't just cruisin' around by yourself in the Bush no more, Jack—have some fuckin' _decency_—"

"Who in the _fuck_ d'you think _you_ are, tellin' me to have _decency_, when you're sittin' in _my_ van, runnin' on _my_ gas, _my_ time—!"

"Yeah sure, that'd be true if you didn't bring me into this by _literally drivin' me up to my fuckin' house without me even knowin'_!"

"I don't see why you're so damn butthurt, love, you're actin' like you're afraid of your own family—!"

"YOU _KNOW_ I AIN'T TRYIN' TO BE HERE—! AND YOU—YOU BROUGHT ME HERE ANYWAY, DIDN'T EVEN FUCKIN' _TELL_ ME—"

"That's just it, mate—maybe you're not tryin' t'be here, but the point is you _need_ to be—you were in tears when you were talkin' to your Mum—"

"Don't bring that shit up—!"

"'Nd I know for a fact you were cryin' 'cause she was too! She misses you, Lawrence! Your brothers're prolly crazy t'see ya—they haven't seen ya since you went to _jail_, love! 'Nd your Mum prolly loses her _mind_, knowin' you'nd Luc are squarin' off everyday—you shouldn't be spendin' your leave with me, Scout—you need to be here, with your family, with your Mum,"

"If you think for even a _second_ that I'm goin' in that fuckin' apartment when that—that _cunt hole_ is in there—!"

"'Nd that's just it, you're lettin' your _stepdad_ get in the way o'everythin', Scout, literally _everythin'_; I know he provoked ya, I know he treated ya like garbage, but those punches cost you your whole entire future 'nd freedom, love—'nd now you're lettin' him get in the way o'you and your own blood! If you think for a minute I was gonna let ya spend another second away from home after seein' your pathetic arse on the phone, you must not know me very well!

It's time to quit bein' the bitter, defiant stepson 'nd confront him, Scout—'nd I'm not talkin' about with bats or fists or knives, but you need to address him 'nd this whole thing like the _adult_ you are, otherwise you're gonna be sittin' in 2Fort, filled with rage—'nd it's just gonna keep buildin' 'nd eatin' at ya—keepin' it inside 'nd avoidin' your home ain't hurtin' anyone but _you_…"

Scout scratches behind his neck, his face a beacon of bright pink overemotion.

"That still don't make what you did right…"

"Maybe not, but trust me, you'll thank me later—your Mum'll prolly thank me too—I'm doin' this _for_ you, love, 'cause I know it's what's s'posed t'be done,"

"You're one to talk, you're the one who hasn't seen his family in seven years, livin' on a whole other fuckin' _continent, hemisphere_…"

"'S 'cause my family doesn't _want_ me back, Lawrence—_yours_ does, 'nd you want to _be_ back, even if it's just for a week—'nd if you're gonna let a little arse licker like Luc get in the way o'that bond you have with you family, then not only're you lettin' 'im win, but you're not provin' anythin',either,"

"And how in the fuck am I supposed to deal with all this?! I can't even be in the same _room_ as that fucker—I'm tryin' to do the _adult_ thing 'nd just stay the fuck away from him!"

"Bein' adult like isn't avoidin' the problem, but findin' a way to resolve it without flippin' out like a toddler—not that—y-y'_are_…" Sniper adds quickly, Scout's scowl at even the implication less than forgiving.

"Y'gotta control yourself…"

"Fine, forget Luc for a second— they're gonna ask about _you_, who the fuck _you_ are'd why you're just bringin' me to Boston, why I'm sleepin' in your house, _van_, thing—I—I wasn't exactly plannin' on comin' out to my _Ma_ on this trip, Jack…"

"Comin' out 'bout what?!"

"Ugh, come on, Jack, you ain't fuckin' stupid…"

"Comin' out t'her 'bout us? You could just tell 'er we're friends, you don't have to make it into anythin'…"

"Yeah, well, there's no way Luc hasn't said somethin'…"

"So what's the problem?!"

"She's definitely gonna want _details_,"

"If she didn't pressure ya on the phone already—"

"Uh, she _did_, dude…"

"'Nd did she seem bothered?"

"She's _oblivious_, man—apparently Luc just left it at 'special friend', now she's cacklin' at me like a fuckin' chicken, askin' a million'n one questions…"

"But we've only been 'together' a week! How in the world does Luc know?!"

"Yeah well, whenever that was he was chattin' you up in the van, you musta let it slip that we'd made out a couple times, 'cause dude sure as Hell wouldn't drop it, askin' me shit like '_since when was I a fag_', '_Does Ma know…_'"

"Good Lord, what a dick—"

"You don't even know the _half_ of it, Jack—Maybe if you did you'd know why the Hell I ain't getting' outta this fuckin' van…"

"I think you are, love—doesn't have to be right this instant, but I'm pretty sure people're gonna start wonderin' what in the world a beat up camper's doin' parked on the side o'the street with Nevada license plates in the middle o'Boston—'nd when they come investigatin', seein' you inside, word's gonna get around t'that flat out there…"

"Can I just—have a few minutes to get my head straight at least?!"

"'Course, love,"

Sniper motions to bring an arm around the young man's shoulders, cautious but unfaltering in his gesture.

"You know I love you 'nd that I'll be right by your side no matter what…" Sniper mumbles, giving Scout a soft shake with the arm he has wrapped securely around his shoulder.

"You don't have to face it alone,"

"I wasn't expectin' to have to face none of this at _all_…"

"I know, but if you drop the ball with 'em now, you'll only find it harder to wedge yourself back in there with 'em the older you get, the longer you hold it all in…'

Scout shrugs, putting up no resistance to Sniper taking his chin in his fingertips, lips sealed under the Australian's for a few calming seconds.

"I've got your back, love…" Sniper assures him quietly, returning Scout's heartfelt hug with open arms of his own.

"Always."


	16. The King of Boston

"I—I just can't do it, Jack…"

"Course you can, love, 's not that hard—you're actin' like you don't know the people who live here…"

"And what if Luc answers?!"

"So what?! Let 'em!"

"Yeah, and then I knock his fuckin' teeth out—"

"Hey, now…"

"Can't we just—_can't we just_, go back in the _van_, turn around, and maybe go—go check out the Grand Canyon?! Or—or somethin'—"

"Come on now, love, we already spent a half hour jus' tryin' t'get you up here—ring it, it'll be alright—if it's Luc I'll do the talkin', okay?" Sniper assures the clearly troubled Scout. The young man sighs, and his finger hovers about the dirty white button that rests adjacent to a time worn label with the name "Fitzpatrick" dabbled upon it in a soft, faded cursive.

"Fitzpatrick? Really? Guess I don't have t'take the time to think where _your_ ancestors came from—"

"Yeah, Lawrence Fitzpatrick—" Scout responds quizzically, eyebrow raised.

"Does it _get_ more Irish than that?! I mean, you're already from _Boston_, bet you bleed whiskey—all you're missin's the red hair, 'nd you've got the little freckles—right here, by your little nose…"

"Stop, Snipes," Scout attempts to conceal his growing smile from the Australian, who brings his thumbs to brush against his cheeks. Smoothing over the barely visible brown specks that plague the roundness of his eyes, Sniper can't help but smile himself as he pats Scout encouragingly on the back, directing his attention onto the dirtied buzzer.

"C'mon, Snipes, I'm serious, if you wanna turn around'nd leave now, I ain't stoppin' ya—as a matter of fact I might even go_witcha_—But that's just, y'know, a suggestion—ain't gotta follow my advice—but really, I don't think we need to be here, I'm sure Ma'nd Alex are enjoyin' themselves with Luc, and my brothers prolly ain't even in town! C'mon, wombat, please, _please_, I can't do it, I just can't go in there…" Scout grumbles in one quick breath, instantly relaxing as Sniper silences him with a gentle kiss, his cheeks growing rounder under the influence of his light grin, Scout's loosened frame resting against his completely.

"Settle down, love…" Jack whispers in between soft, short lived kisses, Scout heeding the Australian's advice and allowing his gentle pecking to ease him down from apprehensive exhilaration. As Sniper attempts to pull away a final time, Scout decides otherwise for the both of them; hands locking behind the older man's head. Sniper grunts and even laughs nervously as Scout wrenches his neck down without any grace to better reach his lips.

_'Jus' wanted t'distract ya, gremlin…'_

Jack's internal chuckle does not outweigh his own growing enthusiasm for his mere _distraction_, the man allowing his eyelids to drop closed, his hands closing around Scout's cheeks to better feel the pressure of the Bostonian's unblemished lips against his very own.

_"Naw, Mom—just coulda sworn I heard voices—"_

Scout freezes instantaneously as a gust of air blows the material of his shirt and the voice he'd brushed off as being nothing establishes its place in reality with a disbelieving "Lawrence?!"

Scout's eyes nearly widen their way out of his skull, Sniper notes, the man biting down on his lip—they'd only broken the kiss a millisecond before the door to the apartment parted unexpectedly—the possibility of their engagement having been witnessed still very probable. If only they'd been so swift about their twisted arms and affectionate embrace, the easily misconstrued nature of their close immediacy startling Scout, the fear settled in his eyes.

"Nah, Mom, for real, I swear, he's _right here!_!"

A tall man of about thirty eight stands before them, his light blue eyes narrowed due to the rise of his cheeks, contrasting brightly against his pale skin and—bright red hair, Sniper humourously notes. The pointed chin instantly marks him as being a sibling of Scout's—one of many, as Sniper recalls—light blonde stubble aligns his well defined chin, the tip of his long nose peppered with the same subtle freckles Sniper'd noticed on Scout just minutes ago.

Though where Scout's eyes seem to still possess a sheen, a livelihood, those of his brother seem dulled, unresponsive—though contently so, as if the young man had seen it all, nothing could phase him in his nirvana of enlightenment, there was nothing new for him to learn—that, or he enjoyed the effects of marijuana all too much and all too often. He's definitely a handsome man, albeit slightly doughy, the sleeves of the ringer tshirt he wears cutting into his flabby biceps.

"Hey, Alex,"

Scout's voice could barely even be called a squeak. His fingers curl in a bony attempt at a lighthearted wave, his face contorted in a rather painful smile. He stands, completely rigid, refusing to take a step forward. Alex on the other hand seems completely unaware of his brother's unexplained hesitancy, and thinks nothing of the fact that the two—including a _complete stranger_—still stand in complete silence.

There certainly was no turning back for Scout at this point.

"Go on, love..." Sniper whispers lovingly in Scout's ears, giving the absolutely stumped young man a slight push forward. "'S no reason t'be afraid of your own brother,"

"Is—is Luc home?"

"Nah, man, he went to go pick up some milk for breakfast or some shit—what the Hell're you doin' here, Larry?! He said you wasn't gonna be comin', that you were goin' with some dude or somethin'—"

Sniper winces as Scout mentally stumbles on Alex's words, the young man blinking rapidly as the initial stun dissipates.

"Luc's fuckin' nuts, bro,"

Sniper can't help but smile as with those words Scout shares a sincere embrace with his oldest sibling, the young man gesturing Sniper inside quietly, Alex walking on ahead toward the back of the apartment, his distant voice calling for their mother.

'_Thank God the mutant's relaxin' a bit_…'

"I AIN'T KIDDIN' YA, MOM, I SAID IT ALREADY! LARRY'S HERE—"

"Larry?!" Sniper chuckles.

"YEAH! NOW GET OUT HERE, HE PROLLY AIN'T GOT ALL DAY!"

Scout shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders upward nervously, flashing Sniper that very same, painful grin he'd shown Alex beforehand.

"Sorry 'bout the mess, Jack," Scout scratches behind his neck, Sniper clasping a hand on his shoulder and smiling sympathetically. "Hey watch your step…" Scout calls quickly, Sniper lifting his shoe back instantaneously—he'd almost crushed a small mouse trap with his heel.

"Yeah, we got a—a—sorry…"

"Y'kiddin' me?! I lived in the Bush for years, love, showerin' in rivers—I only got the little bathroom installed in the camper a few years ago, so I know what it's like, 's jus' fine,"

He must have assured Scout with enough conviction in his voice, for Scout seems to leave it all be for now. Sniper, on the other hand, seems to notice more and more about the apartment that _wasn't_ fine the longer his eyes adjust to the darkly lit living quarters, its only light source being a single window that rests above the sink in the kitchen, adjacent to the living room in which the two still stand. To Sniper's right an arch like indentation in the wall leads to what must be the bedrooms and bathrooms.

Luc must've smoked inside, for the apartment reeks of stale nicotine, cannabis (though that was certainly Alex's particular trace), and a sort of citrus aerosol spray, as if the orange scent was supposed to block the more offensive odors from reaching anyone's nostrils—all with a rather frigid, arid air underlying it. The wood of the light brown front door is chipped, scratched and scuffed—it's certainly decades old. Sniper throws a guilty grimace at the dark grey carpet, stained darker in some areas than others—where most families had heirlooms and estates, the carpet, along with the door, must have substituted as cherished old timepieces within the _Fitzpatrick_ family.

A shabby, dark maroon couch is pressed against the wall, dusted portraits of Ma's sons nailed along it to strategically cover where holes had formed, or where the paisley wallpaper peeled or has been destroyed by moisture. Due to her _choice_decorating, the portraits are scattered about in random, asymmetrical clusters—very much an eyesore, but endearing nonetheless—the faces of her seven children, in all stages of life, is not something even someone as heartless as Sniper could truly scoff at.

The small TV blares, the antenna completely crumpled, static resonating in and out in tune with the fall out of the picture—Sniper, who could honestly say he hasn't watched a television program in years, cannot and has no interest in identifying it—though Scout mumbles something about a Price and it being Right before ambling his way to a small coffee table on the end of the couch, picking up a few envelopes, frowning quietly.

Scout had explained to Sniper that every day since his Father's departure, he'd always shuffled through bills and junk mail in hopes of seeing the scrawl of his patriarchal hero amongst the front of a manila envelop addressed to him. Or a package, a letter, a postcard, a telegram in Scout's name—

Seventeen years of futile checking, Sniper shakes his head, taking this moment of their seclusion to pull Scout into his arms, giving the still overwhelmed Bostonian yet another hug of reassurance.

"You're doin' just fine, love—least Luc isn't here,"

"Yeah, but where's Ma?" Scout asks casually, though Sniper can tell by his jittering leg that he is anything but.

"Think your brother went to fetch 'er," Sniper explains patiently, silently willing Scout not to leave him by his lonesome to retrieve her—things were awkward enough for them both without them separating so early on.

Sniper nearly jumps as a thin woman lets out a shrill "Larry!" on his right, the woman racing to embrace her youngest son in a speedy, stable flash of blue. Scout absorbs her force and weight (or lack thereof, she seemed to be as wide as Sniper's pinky), the young man a good head taller than herself. The two seem inseparable, to say the least. The woman buries her face into Scout's chest, her arms snaked around his neck.

Much to Sniper's surprise, Scout shows no embarrassment in returning her affection—as a matter of fact, he grips her tightly around her waist, with childlike dependency, running a hand down her back.

It truly did a wonder in demonstrating Scout's surprisingly well built, definite frame; compared to the tall Sniper, Scout had always been short and lean due to the nature of his duties. Though as he holds his mother, who could shrink into nothing in the grip of her son, Sniper can see the muscular definition of his arms and chest, torso, the length in his legs quite clearly, the very shape of a _man_.

"Oh, Larry—Luc said you wouldn't be coming home! _Oh_, what a surprise!" She spares no time in planting kisses all along Scout's profile, red imprints of her pecks stamped along every smoochable inch of his face. "Oh, I miss you…"

"Miss you too, Ma," Scout chokes, Sniper clearing his throat so as to excuse himself, not to break them apart. Never before had he seen the young man so soft and sincere— watering eyes and gentle hands, doting embraces, a humbling of the haughty edge in his voice, humility within its tone—the discrepancies between Sniper's Lawrence and Ma's _Larry_ couldn't have _been_ more obvious.

"Luc said you wouldn't be coming home!" she repeats again, a bit less hysterical now that she has had her time to truly process the presence of her son before her. She places her hands on a set of hips Sniper must raise his eyebrows over; for a woman in her mid fifties, she certainly _was_ a dame indeed. Her light blue dress certainly seems far from anything a grandmother would wear—a light and breezy, solid print halter, a black belt minimizing her already nonexistent waist. Her makeup is tastefully done, youthful even. All in all a very beautiful, stylish woman.

"You know how he is, Ma—plus it's not like I talked to him, he prolly had no idea for real,"

Sniper nearly lets out a soft "hmm" at Scout's proper, loving, respectful tone with which he addresses her.

"Well just three days ago we were on the phone and you were sayin' you were with your friend, that you couldn't make it!"

"Change in plans," Scout smiles quickly, laughing and rolling his eyes as if to say "Oh, Ma," as she hugs him again, taking his cheeks in her hands and giving him yet another kiss.

"Well I know you must be tired—you want some juice? Coffee?"

"I'm fine, Ma,"

"You're lookin' pretty fit, Larry—sun tanned, healthy, muscular—I guess this—this _job_ isn't such a bad thing for you after all! Though I'm tellin' you, if you ask me, I really would have rathered you went to college—"

The longer she speaks, the more and more prominent her own Bostonian accent shines through her speech.

"You and me both, but come on, it just wasn't gonna happen, Ma, where was I supposed to get the money from?" Scout sighs, tired as if speaking scripted words, as if the college talk Sniper witnesses now is indeed one of _many_.

"Anthony and Christopher both got scholarships!" she prods her son in the chest before shuffling past him straight into the kitchen.

"Yeah, but Anthony was also keepin' the lights on with _potatoes_ when you couldn't afford to pay the bills, engineerin' radios before he was even outta high school,"

"I still think you could have gotten a little somethin' for you baseball!"

"Oh, come on, Ma, it was just a hobby—I wasn't no Jackie Robinson..."

"Well what about with all the money you're earnin' on these missions you keep not telling me about?!" she snaps passive aggressively, Scout unable to reign back his patience with that particular jab.

"Ma, even if I _could_ tell you about 'em, it's nothin' you need to be hearin' about—you'd lose your marbles if I told ya about war and all that—now you're just pickin' on me to be difficult and you know it,"

"Well pardon me for just tryin' to make sure my baby stays safe! Luc's told me some of his stories, and frankly I don't like you gettin' all caught up in all this! He says you're a _Scout_?! That you're the one expandin' the territories of these—_companies_—I don't even know what they _do_— "

"BLU's the future, Ma!"

"Luc said the same thing about RED all those years ago!"

"Look, I'm already tellin' you too much, you shouldn't even _know_ about 'em, for real, but they control half of _everything_ in this country! If I fight for 'em, help 'em expand, that sorta effort shows up in _my_ pocket—!"

"Money you _should_ be puttin' towards a nice education—"

"That I'm sendin' to _you_ so you can survive, Ma! It's not like _Luc_—listen, there's nothin' we can do about it for now, I'm on with 'em for the next three years—'cause, _you know_, my record…" Scout scratches behind his neck, and Sniper can instantly sense a change in their demeanors as Scout apparently treads on a topic of much taboo.

"C'mon, Ma, forget about it—I'm fine, and I'm gonna _be_ fine—I'm the best Scout BLU's ever had, I ain't just gonna go dyin' on ya," Scout smiles, his mother giving him a skeptical eye, but continuing her work on the dishes all the while.

"Who _cares_ about that stuff, though?! How're you guys?! How's _Boston_?"

"_We're_ fine; Alex's been unemployed the last six months'nd Christopher's wife just had their second baby, you missed the shower—Will's still in Manhattan, he's washin' dishes at some restaurant—I told him to move back in if things get rough, but you know how he is—Anthony's comin' home from Japan next week, he'll lose his _mind_ knowin' he just barely missed ya—Paul's still seein' that _Rosa_—dunno if you remember her, he met 'er at the body shop, apparently she came in a short skirt cryin' about car troubles and he fixed it up for her for free—gave him a rompin' in the _back_ of it for free, too…"

"So he's still fixin' up cars at the shop then, huh?" Scout tries to steer his mother out of her moody grumbling, out of his brother's _sex life_.

"Oh yeah, 'nd Roy—God Bless 'im—he's doin' a missionary in Paraguay right now,"

"Well what the Heck is Anthony doin' in Japan?!"

"Some hi-tech mumbo jumbo for his company—I dunno, ask 'im yourself,"

"Man, and Chris's got another kid…can't believe it..."

"You're such a bad uncle, Larry, those little girls know all their uncles 'cept you,"

"Bring 'em out to the Fort, then, Ma," Scout rolls his eyes, Sniper stifling a chuckle; they truly _were_ an interesting dynamic to observe.

"_ALEX! GET IN HERE, THE EGGS'RE ALMOST DONE_!"

Sniper hadn't even noticed the woman had _prepared_ breakfast. Scout, who sits around a circular table, whose surface is adorned with a plastic, light blue tablecloth with a cherry print, casts his eyes on Sniper, smiling and beckoning him into the kitchen. Sniper looks down at his feet, the black and white tiles dusty, cracked, worn, and destroyed.

"Hey Ma, there's someone I really want you to meet—"

"Uhuh—set the table, Larry—ALEX!"

The woman stalks off toward the bedrooms, Scout growling and scratching apologetically behind his neck.

"Sorry I ain't introduced you yet, Jack—I don't think she's even _noticed_ ya,"

"'S'arlight, love, take your time, she's got a lot to get off her chest it looks like—How could she when she's got her little Larry right in front of 'er?"

"I just don't know how she can be so oblivious to your creeper ass just stalkin' in the shadowy corner," Scout rolls his eyes, Sniper chuckling lightly. "Ain't even offerin' ya a seat…"

"Prolly too excited t'see anythin' but her baby—'Nd how old is your brother?"

"He turned thirty eight last week—surprised he hasn't yelled that I _missed_ it yet…"

"So he's a couple years older than me, huh?"

"Sounds about right,"

"'Nd what's he do?"

"Well, accordin' t'Ma, _nothin'_, got fired or some shit," he shrugs, setting up the table absentmindedly.

"Quite the potty mouth when Ma isn't around…"

"Hey, now," Scout smirks, darting his eyes devilishly onto the Australian.

"We've both mellowed out, y'know?"

"Bullshit, you're still a little hooligan!"

"She used to have a mouth on 'er, too—but—I dunno, ever since Christopher had my niece Genevieve two years ago, she's really calmed down—guess she wants t'make a good Grandma,"

"A _hot_ Grandma!"

"Aw, come _on_ Jack, don't come onto my Ma now, that's just _gross_…"

"I bet you used t'hate gettin' picked up by _her_ in high school,"

"Dude, it was fuckin' disgustin'—dudes were askin' me to take pictures up her dress…"

"'S just wrong, love,"

"And here comes my boyfriend, creepin' on my Ma like the creeper he is,"

Both men turn their heads as the door opens from the living room, Scout biting down on his lip as the unsuited, unmasked frame of Luc throws a pair of keys onto the counter, the man engaged in a newspaper.

"Julie, moi Cheri, I 'ope you 'ave not already finished breakfast! I 'ave zhe milk, 2 percent as you asked! I am terribly sorry it took so long, I was—Lawrence?!"

Luc's jaw actually drops as he catches sight of the completely stunned young man who sits at the table, his eyes wandering onto Sniper's towering frame leaning against the sink.

"Jack?! I—you said you were going to zhe mountains?!"

"Change in plans, mate, Scout was so desperate to come home, who was I t'say no to 'im?!"

Scout's glare could almost be _lethal_ it is so scathing and outraged. Though no sooner than he opens his mouth does his mother enter the kitchen as well, Luc sweeping an arm around her waist and giving her a loving kiss, the woman gripping the milk and unscrewing the cap.

"Alex, pour some milk, would you dear?"

Alex gives his mother an aloof "sure" before scratching at his lower back and doing as told, completely oblivious to Sniper on his left, and the absolutely murderous glare his brother dons—as is everyone save Luc.

"I—I see Lawrence is 'ere!" Luc attempts to express in light, heartfelt casualty, gesturing toward the young man whom he sits across. Sniper can only shake his head, the Frenchman having chosen to sit across his potential death.

"Yeah, just got in about forty five minutes before you came home, dear."

Luc and Sniper share a bit of a glance now the kitchen settles into heavy silence, obviously with little to no intent of revealing the man who has, more or less, hovered above them all uninterrupted since the beginning of Lawrence's unexpected arrival.

"Ahem—I see Lawrence 'as brought a friend,"

Scout's mother shrieks as she finally takes notice of the Australian, the man tipping his hat politely.

"Oh no, ma'am, let me," Sniper smiles, grabbing the dust pan and broom, sweeping the shards of broken glass she had dropped in the midst of her fright.

"No, no, Jack, you are a guest, it is not your place to clean up our messes—Lawrence, would you clean up zhe milk your mozher 'as spilled?"

"How 'bout you suck my fuckin' _dick_—?!"

"_Larry_—!" Scout's mother gasps, placing her hands on her hips, her face absolutely outraged.

"It is no big deal, Julie, 'onestly—forget I asked, Lawrence—Alex, would you—"

But Alex's chair scraping across the tile drowns out the rest of the man's request, the weight of his steps masking Scout's rage filled breath, his mother's sheepish hiccups, Luc's constant clearing of his throat, and Sniper's general humiliation felt over existing in the kitchen of _this_ bin of looney tunes.

"Jack is it? Oh," she titters, holding out a small hand nervously, Sniper shaking it courteously. "That's—that's a nice name…." Scout's mother brings her hand to her mouth, nodding quickly and avoiding the eyes of everyone else for a few moments.

"I'm Julie," she adds a curt nod at the end of her short comment.

"So—_Jack_," Julie clears her throat, lifting her eyes up to meet the Australian's, who still leans against the counter.

"H-how did you get in here?"

Out of all the attempts to keep calm somewhere as a recognizable tone in their voices, Sniper has to say this one might be the best. Such a simple question asked so innocently, yet packed with so much alarm, confusion, caution, and worry.

"Well, I walked in the front door, Ma'am," Sniper attempts to joke, but simply resorts to taking off his hat and sunglasses, revealing the entirety of his person before his hosts.

"So who the fuck is this guy, man?!" Alex snaps, gesturing toward Sniper and glaring at his youngest brother. "Bringin' random ass guys 'round here, 'round Mom, the fuck is wrong with you?! He's just standin' there, man—"!

"Hey! You better watch how the fuck you talk about Jack, slugger,"

"Lawrence!"

"Sorry, Ma—"

"'S'alright, Lawrence—'s perfectly understandable, I haven't exactly introduced myself like I should have,"

"Come on, he's my friend! What else would he be?! Some random fu—_freakin'_ dude I just picked up?! Seriously, how do you think I got to Boston?! I walked here?! Seriously guys, who else would he be?!" Scout rolls his eyes, slamming the glass of milk on the table, drops sliding in lazy streaks over its surface.

"_Certainly_ not an enemy of yours!" Luc chuckles, Alex gripping onto the back of Scout's shirt as the young man rises, Sniper frowning slightly.

Certainly Scout's family would want to know just _where_ it was they met, and it probably wouldn't take any critical thinking to determine that "The 'Fort", as the two had lovingly nicknamed their hellish front, was the place of origin as far as their friendship was concerned.

_'What am I s'posed t'tell these people?! I've been tryin' t'snipe 'nd murder your son 'nd brother the last three years butcan't__because I love him 'nd the sex is nice?!_'

"Jack's my friend—my _best_ friend, he's—"

"Jack and I are also very well acquainted; I've known 'im for ten years!"

"_Okay, just fuckin' interrupt me_—"

"And how old did you say you were?" Julie leans across the table, her voice raised in volume to silence her son.

"I'm thirty six,"

"Oh, Goodness! Almost Alex's age! I see! Well then I'm glad my son could find solace in you, ," Julie smiles smally, Sniper noting thankfully that now applies a distinct softness whilst uttering his name. "He must have seen a brother in you,"

"Trust me, fleur, I 'ave beared witness to zheir _comraderie_; it is a very touching display of fraternity if zhere ever was one!"

Sniper shifts nervously in his chair, Scout blanching; he too must've found it rather repulsive to refer and compare the man with whom he often engaged in actions surpassing anything in a _brotherly_ sense to his damn _sibling_.

"Your son 'as certainly touched Jack, and Jack 'im; in more ways zhan _one_—"

"FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKIN'—!"

"Lawrence—!"

"Nah, Ma, fuck this—fuck _him_, I'm done!" Scout shouts, stalking from the kitchen in moody strides. "Lawrence!" Sniper calls, standing to follow him, the front door however slamming moments later.

"I—I'm sorry, Jack…" Julie whispers nervously, eyes wide as she rests her forehead in her hands, shaking her head. "I know you must think we're rather weird, but I just don't know what gets into him..."

"'E'll be back in due time, Fleur, just let 'im get 'its _tantrum_ from 'is system—I only made a few comments…"

"I'm going to go talk to him, I'm not lettin' my baby just walk out like that!" she mumbles, grabbing Luc's windbreaker from the counter. The three sit in silence as the final sounds of Julie's calling _"Larry!"_ and the slamming door afterward diminish.

"I'm gonna take this into my room," Alex yawns, sauntering lazily through the arch and toward the back. "Nice meetin' ya..." he adds apathetically, Sniper raising a hand in acknowledgement.

"For God's _sake_, Luc—" Sniper hisses at the man once the bedroom door slams.

"What?!" Luc asks with a mocking smile, leaning back comfortably.

"You knew what it was you were sayin', you were provokin' him! He's tryin' not to lose his marbles 'nd you're bein' a dick, mate!"

"Ah, it was all in good 'umour! ' Onestly, you boys need to learn 'ow to take a joke! I didn't 'it 'im or call 'im a _faggot_, I was only telling 'is mozher about 'ow close of a friendship you two 'ave!"

"What were you tryin' t'say with that _'touchin'_ drivel?!"

"Nozhing! Just zhat you have made a significant impact in each ozher's lives! Any ozher way you two interpreted it is simply zhe fault of your own dirty imaginations," Luc chuckles, eyebrows raised innocently.

"He's not ready t'come out to his Mum just yet, mate, so watch what you say—_please_,"

"Oh, come, 'is mozher didn't even _notice_ zhe comments! 'E's the one drawing attention to it all by _storming out of zhe apartment_, non?"

"Well we know what it is you think you're so funny mentionin', Luc, 'nd you already know Scout can't stand ya anyway—"

"Clearly not,"

"Act like a grown man 'nd don't give him such a hard time, let him enjoy bein' home without makin' him wanna go kill himself or whatever the Hell his problem is,"

"I just made a couple jokes, Jack—you must admit that he overreacted—"

"Still, bein' a dick 'cause you know he will ain't exactly all that mature either, mate,"

"So zhen I suppose you are zhe only one of us zhree acting 'is age?"

"I ain't sayin' _that_, but it'd be nice if you two could get your acts t'gether,"

"_You're_ the one dating 'im, is 'e not an overgrown toddler?"

"He—he can be perfectly mature when he wants,"

"Which is never,"

"Hey, lay off him, mate,"

"Alright, alright,"

"Honestly, not sure how much I can believe ya when you said you loved him and his brothers,"

"But I _do_ Jack! 'Is mozher and 'er boys mean everyzhing to me! Zhe Grandchildren love me as well—permitted I am 'ome to be wizh zhem,"

"Why d'you treat Scout like that then, eh?"

"It is all just a bit of fun—zhe boy needs to work out 'is sensitivity issues—"

"His _issues_ prolly have somethin' t'do with his _stepdad_ 'causing his father t'run out on them, only to move in and make his life a livin' Hell!"

"I _tried_ being zhere for 'im during zhe transition, Jack! It was 'im zhat abused me!"

"'Re you serious?! You really sayin' that you took an eight year old boy's father away'nd _you're_ the traumatized one?!"

"I was not zhe one zhat drove zhe despicable man to abandon 'is children! Every _day_ I felt for Lawrence, I wanted to be zhe fazher figure for 'im I knew 'e would no longer 'ave, but 'e would not give me a chance!"

"You were still messin' around with a married woman, mate, there wouldn't a been a _need_ t'replace his Dad if maybe you'd left her alone—!"

"An _unhappily_ married woman who was being abused by 'er groom! 'E would come 'ome drunk, 'e slept around wizh multiple women and zhreatened 'er wizh taking everyzhing should she divorce! She was trapped, Jack, in a 'Ell of a marriage wizh seven children who needed a fazher and an income to _support_ zhem all!"

"Scout only says the best things about his father!"

"I understand zhat you love 'im and will zherefore be quick to take 'is side, but please remember Jack zhat Scout was eight years old at zhe time—and arguably still _is_—zhe only good zhing I can say about Arnold Fitzpatrick is zhat 'e 'ad zhe courtesy to 'ide 'is abuse towards zheir mozher from 'is children.

'E _was_ zhere for Lawrence, zhis is true—Lawrence saw 'im wizh only zhe brightest of eyes, but for an eight year old it does not take much to captivate zheir interest—hence why murderers lead zhem away wizh promises of candy and puppies, non? Trips to pictures and baseball games may work in one's youzh, but 'ad zhat man stayed in Lawrence's life as 'e grew older, it would 'ave taken much more to impress 'im—eventually Lawrence too would 'ave become a victim of zhat man's ill tendencies—or even worse, 'e would 'ave taken _after_ 'is 'ero! What Lawrence does not understand is zhat I saved 'im from _real_ abuse, Jack! Zhough to 'im I 'ave not, for zhe memory of 'is fazher abandoning 'im haunts 'im to zhis very day! Zhe boy stalks zhe Teufort post office when 'e isn't stalking _you_!"

Sniper chuckles, shaking his head.

"And when you tell 'im to let zhe man who 'as truly 'urt 'im go as zhe enemy 'e 'as sworn you to be since 'is youzh, you can only get so far wizh your advice,"

"…Aye," is all Sniper can say, scratching behind his neck.

"Zhe boy likes to leave out certain details when talking about me,"

"You think he knows about his father?"

"Firsthand? Oh yes—'is fazher abandoned 'im and 'is brozhers! Zhe abandonment 'as ruined, disappointed, broken, and shaped 'im. Lawrence meant nozhing to 'im in reality!—what parent could go seventeen years wizhout talking to eizher of 'is seven children? Or zhe one 'e claimed to be zhe closest to, for zhat matter—Zhe more _apparent_ abuse on zhe ozher 'and, no—I 'ave explained to Scout the truzh about 'is fazher many times in 'is adolescence, but 'e is not one to listen zhe majority of zhe time,"

"But you still beat him, mate, when he'd give ya sass you'd beat the shit outta 'im!"

"It was cowardly and wrong, and I know it, Jack—I cannot take it back no matter 'ow much I want to, but you must understand where my frustration at zhe time came from—zhe day I insulted 'im at breakfast earned me zhe blows to zhe face I'd been expecting from 'im for years—zhough zhat zhey led to 'is imprisonment, 'is drafting into BLU—I regret speaking zhem every day, Jack…"

"Goodness, mate, I—I had no idea…"

"Lawrence is 'urt, very, very 'urt—'e 'as every right to be, Jack—but what 'e does not understand is zhat 'e doesn't understand who it is zhat initially 'urt 'im in zhe first place,"

"'Nd what do you think he'd say if he were to meet his father today?"

"'Is image of 'is fazher still stuck in zhe very frames 'e 'arboured as an eight year child—I imagine Lawrence would be ecstatic upon first encountering 'im, but wizh each passing minute, lost time would only catch up as well—'is smile would falter, 'e would want to know _why_ zhe man left 'im like 'e did, and zhe boy would not like 'is answer,"

"Why don't you clear your name with the kid, Luc?! I mean, if you love him the way y'say you do!"

"I 'ave _tried_! And unfortunately, even wizh zhis knowledge I am not so innocent—I was just as childish as Lawrence, you know—I didn't take zhe little shit wizh zhe patience adult'ood should call for—we would often get physical once he hit around fifteen, sixteen.

'E would accuse me of not paying zhe bills, of going away to France for monzhs at a time—due to zhe classified nature of my work for RED, you can understand 'ow 'ard it was to sit back and listen to a smartmouzh teenager accuse you of taking pleasure cruises about Europe whilst in reality you were spying on your own 'ome country for RED's prosperity—apparently zhe French branch wanted to sever ties wizh its American parent—you can imagine zhe Administrator was most displeased—but you could not argue back because it would be a breach of security—divulging company interests would put myself and zhem all at risk,"

"Still, 's not like we don't make nice amounts o'money, why in the Hell're you livin' in a place like—like…" Sniper clears his throat, looking up at the cracked, water and nicotine yellowed ceiling.

"_…this_?!"

"_You_ try moving into a gracious 'ome wizh seven children and zheir mozher on your salary, Jack,"

"Aye," he nods apologetically.

"Lawrence, quite simply, 'as issues; storming away from zhe breakfast table at twenty five years old because of a few _jokes_is be'aviour reserved for an age group much below 'is own,"

And with those words Luc leans back in his chair, silent as the front door opens, and a pouting Scout brushes moodily past them both, grabbing his cup and pouring more milk into it quietly. Julie sighs, casting Luc a tired glance and sitting back at the table next to him.

"_So_—Jack—is that van out there yours?" she wastes no time in breaking the silence, Scout's clanking near the sink the only noises he contributes to the sudden conversation.

Sniper clears his throat before nodding.

"Me'nd Lawrence've prolly spent more time in 'er than at the 'Fort! She's right cozy, drives pretty well even though she's almost twenty years old—I'd say me'nd Scout'd both call 'er a second home," he smiles, Lawrence plopping down in Alex's empty chair. He nods, wasting no time in shoveling a spoonful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, Sniper lacing their fingers on his knee under the table.

"You two don't have luggage to bring up?"

"The van _is_ my luggage," Sniper chuckles, Scout making a pointed note to face only his mother as he speaks.

"Yeah, Jack practically lives in it! It's real clean, though,"

"Now where're you from again, Jack? You've got a bit of an accent—what is it, Minnesotan?"

"He's Australian, Ma, come on," Scout smirks, Sniper heaving softly with silent laughter.

"So what're you doing all the way over here?! Isn't Australia a _little_ far away?"

"Oi, got drafted out here—had a few hits the Australian division o'RED wanted taken out, ended up gettin' moved out here permenantly,"

"Hits? As in, the _mob_, kinda hits?"

Sniper flushes.

"Y-Yeah, I'm a Sniper, Miss Julie,"

"That would explain the rifle I saw behind the driver's side of your van—"

"Oh shoot, I guess I should prolly hide that thing—"

"It's okay, Larry put it in the camper for you,"

"Oh—thanks _Larry_," Sniper smirks as the young man sticks his tongue at him.

"So how long're you two plannin' on stayin' in town?" Julie asks sweetly, pouring the still silent Luc another cup of coffee, the man disinterested behind his newspaper.

"_'S'all up t'you, love…_" Sniper whispers in Scout's ear, though the freedom to choose only works to petrify him further.

"I dunno—Jack's the one with the van, he's drivin', so…"

"I 'ave to leave early for Teufort, if zhis fact should 'ave any bearing on zhe duration of your stay,"

"When're y'gonna head out?"

"We're required to be back in approximately five days—my train leaves this Wednesday—It shouldn't take you too long to head back out West, I've 'eard you drive razher quickly,"

"Oi, how 'bout we stay a couple days, gremlin?"

Scout shrugs.

"Gremlin? That's a cute little nickname, Larry," Julie smiles at the young man, Scout's cheeks reddening from embarrassment—narrowing his eyes and glaring softly at Luc as the Frenchman smirks at him from over his newspaper. Scout lets it all be as Sniper rubs his back with sedative strokes of the palm of his hand, abandoning the action as Alex shuffles in, tossing his bowl carelessly into the spotless sink.

"Could you wash the bowl, dear? I just got done with the dishes," Julie sighs, but Alex simply grabs another chair and grants himself a spot at the circular table, eyes brushing over everyone and their expressions—save Luc's, whose front is hidden entirely.

"So how do you know Larry?" Alex asks Sniper in a blunt, lethargic mumble, Scout rolling his eyes and folding his arms.

"You missed that whole entire conversation, dude—he's my best friend," Scout snaps quickly, as if the recounting the simple facts as to who the unknown Australian is is below him.

Sniper prepares himself for a comment from Luc, though thankfully the man remains distant from the chit chat.

"Alright then,"

Scout brings a spoonful of eggs into his mouth, watching his brother's intensive stare on him from the corner of his eye.

"You know he never had many friends growing up,"

"Ma…"

"You know it always used to surprise me—he's always been a talkative boy—"

"He _always_ been a chatterbox?" Sniper chuckles, Scout rolling his eyes and giving the man a soft punch on the arm.

"He's been talking for as long as I remember! Him and his Father would have the silliest conversations, and Larry was barely two years old!"

"Jack doesn't care about any of that, Ma," Scout sighs, taking a generous square of butter with his knife and smearing it on blackened toast. "I see you still haven't replaced that ghetto ass toaster,"

"Well maybe next time you come up you can bring a new one with you," Julie snaps back..

"Why do you bite into your toast like that?" Alex shakes his head, Scout raising his eyebrows impatiently, mouth stretched around the rock hard bread, the crunch of the solidified dough sending shivers down Sniper's spine.

"You look like a beaver, bro…"

"Alex, he does not, take it back, don't say that about your brother," Julie chastises quickly, as if the line is a trademark of hers.

"Yeah he does, look at his teeth! You woulda thought they had dental plans in jail—"

"That's enough, Alex," Julie snaps with finality, taking Luc's cup to the sink and patting Scout on the cheek along her way.

"I got outta there, man, I'm—I'm a soldier, now!"

"What, the Army don't have a dental plan?!"

Scout rushes to cover his hands before his mouth, eyes wide. Sniper finds it all so strange that Scout, who was often a very dangerous young man to engage when it came to the back and forth of exchanged insults, sits passively, silently trying to avert attention to the area of ridicule. Perhaps he says nothing out of respect of his mother sitting there (nothing Scout would have to say back would be appropriate for her ears, Sniper is certain).

"Ow!" Alex shrieks as Julie whacks him up the side of the head, Luc however making quiet imitation beaver noises seconds later.

"Now I _mean it_! Enough's enough!" She glares at the two men, Sniper smirking and wrapping an arm around the horrified Scout's shoulder. "You're both much too old for this kind of silliness! Larry your teeth are fine," She adds, sharing an eye roll with Sniper before collecting the food upon the table.

A few minutes go by in which Scout is completely oblivious to Sniper's watchful eye, too preoccupied with his own silent pout.

"Oi—I hope you all don't find if I hop out for a little smoke,"

"No, of course not! You can smoke inside, Jack, Luc does it all the time,"

"Thanks, Miss," Jack grunts, patting his pockets. "Oi...I think I left 'em in the camper; guess I'll nip down there right quick..."

"Well are we done with breakfast? Larry honey why don't you help me clean up a bit? 'Nd Luc I could really use someone t'mow the grass before the landlord files another complaint to the blockwatch—"

"Zhe whole _point_ of zhe landlord owning zhe building is zhat it is _'is_ responsibility to mow zhe lawn, and take out zhe garbage, and..."

"Don't gimmie that, I've been askin' ya for nearly a week to do it already!"

"_Fine_, but _I_ will be zhe one to file zhe complaint zhis time!"

"You gonna give that boob a piece o'your mind...?" the woman asks devilishly, giving the Frenchman a kiss on the cheek. "I miss you, honey..."

"I'm doing zhis for _you_, Cheri..." Luc growls, Julie giving him a smack on the bum as he lets out an irritated sigh before heading out the door.

"So!" Julie smiles, clasping her hands together before patting Scout on the cheek. "Let's get this table bussed and scrubbed, sweetie..."

Scout nods, grabbing hold on the dishes, kicking Luc's irregularly positioned chair that jutts into the kitchen with a blunt jab of his heel, the wood aligning neatly against the table.

"Larry, honey I know he bothers you, but please try not to let him get to you, okay? Who knows when you'll get a chance to see me again, I don't want you to spend all your time poutin', okay?" she soothes, gasping as she catches sight of a pack of cigarettes sticking from his back pocket.

"_Larry, what are these_—"

"Aw, Ma, they're—they ain't nothin'—"

"Larry I am _ashamed_! When in the _world_ did you start smokin' these—these—_cancer sticks_?!"

"About half a year ago..."

"I can't believe you!"

"Ma, please..." Scout mumbles, taking the dish soap into hand and lathering it into a damp rag. "It ain't that big o'deal, alright? I ain't even addicted..."

"Where'd you even get _into_ such a habit?! Who got ya into it—"

"Ma, I—Jack and I smoke, but I swear it's just sometimes—"

"So it was _him_ huh?! You know I'm not really all so sure how I feel about him,"

"What do you mean?!" Scout asks defensively, forgetting to turn off the faucet even after he washes and dries the final dish, turning to glare skeptically at his mother, the woman leaning against the skin, struggling with the words.

"Look, I—I just don't like the idea of you hangin' around foreign, older men like that—"

"Oh yeah but Luc's _fine_—"

"Don't you interrupt me, Larry! I mean he seems kinda _dirty_, like he doesn't take _care_ of himself—"

"We've been on the road for three days straight, Ma, he's not just gonna be a _model_—"

"He seems to be gettin' you involved in all _sorts_ o'good things like smokin', probably drinkin' and cursin'—"

"Ma, it's not his fault I smoked the cigarette, they aren't even his, he bummed a pack off Luc—"

"So he's a _thief_ too, _wonderful_—"

"He's _not_, Ma—ugh, you're not even givin' him a chance—!"

"He lives in his _van_, and then you're just ridin' around with him—how safe is that thing, huh? Does it wobble when you drive? Is he even a _good_ driver? Does the car seem reliable?!"

"He's _fine_, Ma—"

"You know your Father was livin' out of his car for some time, too—"

"Ma—"

"He's—he has that _accent_, 'nd I notice you're startin' to sound like him, too—"

"What?! No I ain't!"

"You are too, Larry, you're pickin' up a little accent! And he doesn't cut his hair—"

"Now you're just lookin' for stuff to pin on him—"

"I don't have to _look_, Larry, the man is a killer! He's an _assassin_, and my little Larry is just ridin' around in his van, joy ridin' without seatbelts on—!"

"We wear seatbelts, come on, Ma—you don't even _know_ him, you can't—you can't judge him—give him a chance, Ma, Jack's—Jack's the best thing that's ever happened to me, alright?! Seriously, I ain't never been so close to no one before—"

"Oh yes, forget about your own _Mom_—"

"You _know_ what I mean! He's my best friend, and I don't like the way you and Alex're just attacking him—you've spoken with him for two minutes and for one of them you both had your mouths stuffed with food! He's important to me, Ma, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just give him a chance," Scout snaps softly, Julie scoffing, sighing nonetheless.

"You know you sound like _me_—I asked you to give Luc a chance—I'm _still_ askin', even—"

"Yeah, but I've had fifteen years to realise the guy is a—a—" Scout shakes his head, for finding an appropriate insult proves to be a feat beyond his prowess. "You don't know nothin' about Jack—he's a wonderful guy and an even better friend—'nd if you guys don't start treatin' him right I'm leavin'..."

"Alright, Larry—but you can't fault me, I'm your Mom, I'm gonna worry about the company you keep,"

"Why can't you just trust me to know I ain't walkin' around with drug dealers that don't bathe?!" Scout chuckles, choosing not to mention that _she's_ the one engaged to a child beater.

"Alright, Larry—I can't make promises for your brother, but I'll try to be a little less judgmental,"

"It's all I ask," Scout sighs, turning his head as the front door opens, the man of discussion slipping in jovial unawareness through it.

"So he's Australian, huh..._not_ Minnesotan..." Julie mumbles, Scout rolling his eyes and smiling softly at the man who meets them in the kitchen.

"Luc sure did seem a bit peeved 'bout that yard work,"

"He never liked doin' it, he's always pay one of us off t'do it instead..."

"How do you know it's what he's talkin' about down there? I can only hear French..."

"Y'pick up enough of it t'understand when he's _really_ angry when ya work with'im, Miss Julie," Sniper flashes her a handsome smile, one Scout is pleased to see silently stuns his mother, who seems rather takenaback by Sniper and his admittedly attractive features.

"So then you speak French?" she asks, intrigued and crossing her arms.

"A little, though my Italian's much better,"

"Nice, nice—so what were you two planning on doing? I imagine you don't just want to _stay inside_..."

"Well, I was—I was actually kinda hopin' Lawrence would show me a little o'the neighbourhood,"

Scout looks up at the man, who returns his sudden gaze with a small smile.

"There's nothin' to really show for real…" Scout sighs, his speech somewhat muffled as he positions his lips to hide his incisors. "It's a dump out there—Springfield's real ghetto, Snipes…."

"C'mon, just for a few minutes,"

Scout needs not to be asked yet another time, the longing glint in the Australian's eyes an unmistakable cue for the young man to abandon the table and treat the older of the two on a bit of sight seeing.

The corners of Sniper's mouth flip upward, the small dents of the dimples in his cheeks filled with a warm but persistent vibe of _"c'mon"_. Scout gives Sniper a light smile of his own, turning to check his mother pays them no mind as he lifts his fist silently (but threateningly nonetheless) at the Frenchman's devilish smirk at the two.

"You don't mind Ma?"

"Of course not, Larry, I don't think any of us had plans today—though we were scheduled to have lunch with Christopher tomorrow, the kids've been _dyin_' to see Grandpa, and I _know_ Christopher would lose his _mind_ if he knew you were in town!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll—I'll definitely go with you guys—we'll talk about it when we come back up, okay?" Scout sneers down at Luc as the two pass him, Scout waiting until they're outside on the fresh air to emit a long, frustrated roar of a sigh.

"'S wrong, love?" Sniper asks curiously, squinting at Scout beside him, for the white brightness of the overcast sky blinds him.

Sniper busies himself by studying the exterior of the brick apartment building whilst awaiting Scout's answer, picking idly at the mortar and looking up only when Scout makes a start along the uneven sidewalk.

"_They're so immature_!" Scout snaps, the Australian settling on a soft "Hm" as his answer, hands in his trouser pockets as he meets Lawrence's pace.

'_You're all actin' like a bunch o'kiddies, if I may say so…_' Sniper muses.

"Seriously, they need to grow the fuck up," he continues, his scowl mingled with a combination of disgust and disbelief.

"Dunno how your poor Mum holds it out."

Scout hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said this "Springfield" was a dump with nothing to see. With the exception of the poorly paved, pothole ridden road that ran in a straight line for a considerable distance, there was honestly nothing to prove that anyone even _lived_ around the area—or at least not in a wholesome manner. A few boarded up, run down homes sprinkle both sides of the street, most of their lawns unkempt and overgrown with weeds, junk, and scrap metal. Scout tugs on Sniper's shoulder, dragging the man from his unaware step into a pile of fine, light green glass splashed about the grey sidewalk, the Australian walking on top of a Styrofoam cup left behind as litter in the tall grass instead.

"I wasn't jokin' when I said you don't see people out here unless they're up to somethin'," Scout, whose last statement he'd attempted to utter with an endearing lightness, instead only ends up as being a sad sigh, as if Scout had willed the reality of his life and the way he lived it to be far from that which it really is.

"I dunno why she hasn't dumped his ass yet,"

Of course they were back onto Luc. Sniper's lips twist in queasy slant.

"It was nice of 'im not to say anything to your Mum about—y'know, _us_," Sniper attempts to remind Scout that not _everything_the man had done that day was all that terrible.

"Bet you the bastard could hardly stop himself,"

Lawrence kicks some loose gravel with the toe of his cleat, his eyes watching the pebbles as they roll in between the aged grooves of the sidewalk before making a permanent stop onto the street.

"Y'never know, love, he might not mean anythin' by it; 'nd I wouldn't let it ruin your next couple days at home, if I were you—he'll be leavin' after tomorrow 'nd that'll give you a whole day to yourself with your Mum'nd brother,"

Scout shrugs, grabbing Sniper by the hand and leading him toward an unkempt park, plopping unenthusiastically onto one of the swings.

"Classy," Sniper spits, catching a glimpse of the graffiti upon his swing, a crudely drawn penis ejaculating drawn square where the ass is to sit.

"That's Springfield for ya, Jack…" he huffs, using his heels to rock himself just slightly, eyes on the dirt.

Sniper couldn't say he blamed the Bostonian; he too knew how it felt to harbour both a longing and bitter resentment toward all things home and the subjects that typically associate with the thought of it. Sniper could sympathise, the way he too would rather walk into the mouth of his enemy than into the open arms of his own kin. How did it all come down to the unfortunate fact that they'd both rather face death everyday as opposed to the memories of their fathers?  
>Scout had every right to be hurt, Luc was absolutely correct in that regard; both men had. And yet here Sniper was, forcing Scout to reconcile with the horde of unsettled anguish, misdirected and unaddressed frustration, betrayal, unacceptance—while Sniper trailed behind him only because the deeper he ventured into the happenings of Lawrence's life, the further removed he became of his own. Sniper never <em>could<em> stand hypocrites—and here he was, forging a two faced, double standard of a label to call his own…

"You're never gonna get off the ground if y'don't lift your feet up, love…" Sniper sighs, standing behind Lawrence and giving him a soft push, Scout's hands curled on the rusted chains, head cast to the side, eyes rooted in turbulent thought onto the mulch below his feet.

He cannot help but curl his arms around Scout's waist as he pulls him back for yet another propel into the air, the motion futile as the arms locked around his frame prevent him from getting anywhere. He seems not to mind, however, content with leaning his head on Sniper's shoulder instead.

"Sorry if things seemed hectic—y'know, with me stormin' out, 'nd the apartment lookin' like a fuckin' _war zone_, no one even noticin' ya _until an hour after we'd been there_—"

"I already told ya it was nothin'," Sniper sighs, Scout nodding, silent for a few moments.

"Look at me," Sniper mumbles, taking Scout's chin into his finger tips and pointing his profile so their eyes meet.

"Smile."

Scout looks about nervously for a few seconds before his lips form an awkward excuse of an unintentionally nervous smile, his eyes doing to much to express his question of "why?!" where his words are unable.

"No, no, _smile_ love…" Sniper's thumbs brush against Scout's cheeks so his lips part, Sniper's eyes darting along the dimension's of his soft mouth.

"They're cute," he grunts.

"What…?" Scout's brow furrowing as he twists in the swing, cautious and defensive in his tone.

"Your little teeth," Sniper chuckles, and Scout groans before covering his mouth with his hand again.

"'No no, 'S _cute,_ Sniper pulls the hand away, though Scout keeps his lips shut defiantly.

"So maybe they're a little _bucky_, but y'don't look like a beaver—they're right adorable…"

"I told you about callin' me adorable, Jack—_stop lookin' at my fuckin' teeth, Snipes!_" Scout chuckles as Sniper cannot help but grin himself, the young man's toothy smile to die for.

"Don't listen to'im, love—he's just jealous 'cause you're a cutie 'nd he's fat,"

"Jack! He—he wasn't always that flabby, he _used_ to be skinny as fuck, actually—must be eatin' a lot since he got fired from the gas station,"

"I don't care, I'd be jealous too if my hot younger brother jus' _showed_ up at breakfast, all tan'nd muscular after _fightin'_ 'nd my ass is too busy eatin' hot pockets after gettin' fired from a convenience store…"

"Alright, alright, lay off 'im…"

"Sorry, love…"

"You're fine, Jack—and thank you…"

"For what?"

Sniper slips his hands from around Scout and gives him a soft push, the swing squeaking as Scout rocks in the stagnant air.

"For bringin' me here—y-you were right, I really need to be home…"

'_Did the bugger really jus' say I was right?!_'

"But don't think you still ain't an ass for doin' it behind my back and thinkin' you can just run shit,"

"'Course not," Sniper smirks, pulling Scout from off the swing and into his arms in one fluid motion. "'Nd you're welcome,"

"But you're still an ass,"

"'Nd what would Mum say if she heard ya usin' such foul language, Larry?"

"Hey, you ain't allowed to say Larry—"

"What?! Why not?!"

"'Cause it's Ma's nickname for me—'nd she can't call me love, or gremlin neither,"

"You've got the silliest rules, mate,"

"'Nd you better follow 'em," Scout threatens jokingly, seriousness however embossed in his tone.

"'Cause this is Boston, 'nd we don't fuck around,"

"You definitely aren't gonna wanna _fuck around_ with your ride back to the 'Fort, either, or else you'll have to take the train with your favourite Frenchman,"

"But what if I was plannin' on it tonight?"

"On what?"

"_Fuckin' around witcha_,"

"Oh, Lawrence," Sniper sighs, biting down on his lip and shaking his head. "Not in your childhood _bedroom_, mate—I just couldn't—that's—what if your Mum hears?!"

"Then she'll know I ain't a virgin no more," Scout winks.

"But then if Luc tells 'er, you'd blow a gasket," Sniper smirks, Scout pouting for a split second before looking about to assure them of their seclusion, kissing the Australian on the cheek.

"Forget about it," is all he says in response, and as Lawrence kisses him outright, Sniper does just that; God forbid the King of Boston didn't get his way.


	17. The Coronation Ceremony

**ME AND SPAZIDELIC DID ANOTHER AUDIO RECORDING FOR THIS PART /27226635** "So which part of Australia did ya say you're from again?"

Sniper, who sits so engrossed with the baked porkchop on his plate, misses the question Julie poses. He scrunches his face in utter determination, gripping his fork and knife heavy handedly, literally sawing through the meat in a harsh attempt to cut it into quarters. The grooves of the experienced butterknife have clearly been sent to cut many years' worth of meals; the once reflective surface is now spotted with murky, age induced smudges, scratched and scraped by what Sniper comically notes was probably Scout's buck teeth sliding the across the cutlery indiscriminately.

The man grunts as his chair slides against the floor as a counterforce to that which Sniper exerts against the light yellow plate, the very same plate upon which his meal was served; Jack slides back a few inches, able to stop the tipping of his rigid oak chair thanks to his heel doubling as a stopper of his inertia. He places his hand on his chest and simply releases his silverware onto the table next to his plate, silently relinquishing the title of victor unto the defiant meal which Sniper ultimately finds impossible to consume despite his efforts.

"Larry honey, I think you might've let the pork cook a little too long," Julie whispers out of the corner of her mouth to her youngest son who stands unoccupied at the kitchen sink, washing equally aged pots and skillets by hand with his back turned to the others who also populate the Fitzpatrick kitchen. The middle aged woman raises a thinly plucked eyebrow at the tough, light red slab that sits shriveled in a brine of dark brown gravy on Sniper's plate, the edges curled up and congealed as if wilted and spoiled with death.

The woman, who holds her fork primly in between fingers tipped with nails shined and polished, coloured with a rich light pink nail lacquer, lets the corner of her mouth curl too in a manner similar to the flesh she skewers, rotating it slowly so as to survey her son's culinary brainchild as a singular cohesive display. "Seriously, dear, you baked them, they should be tender; I told you to take these out of the oven at three, but _no_, don't botha listenin' to mommy,"

"Ma, I would've had them out sooner if Luc had just mowed the lawn like he said he would," Scout sighs, back still turned to the two who sit at the table still. The stove on the opposite wall with the refrigerator is soaked in dried canola oil, as is the ceiling above it from where the hot grease must have popped. Heat still radiates from the very side of the room, for the oven had only been turned off some few minutes ago. Julie leans back and fans herself, her tanned, freckled chest visible due to the low cut collar of her halter dress, glistening with a light sheen of sweat as proof of her discomfort. "It ain't like I've never cooked before…"

"Normally you cook with mommy, though, I can understand if maybe your first time makin' a meal isn't perfect," Julie sighs, stretching a jewelry bedecked hand to tickle at Scout's hips affectionately, giving her son a light pat on the bum.

"Well sorry, Ma—I gotta prepare lunch'n mow the _lawn_ 'cause it's an inch away from gettin' ya cited by the city, and of course you tell Luc to do it, but _he_ just _ditches_—"

"Larry he fully intended to mow it, but Paul needed help and it wasn't like he was goin' to just leave your brother on the side of the road—"

"Shocked, I really am,"

Scout slams the dishes against the imitation marble sink, the crash of water cooled porcelain against scagliola momentarily deafening the other two, though neither jump.

"Wouldn't 'a put it past 'im,"

Sniper opens his mouth slightly as if meaning to apologise, his brow arched regretfully as he taps the plate, the origin of Scout's new mood, with the back of his knuckles.

"Sorry 'bout your meal, Jack…"

"N—no, Lawrence, it's—" Sniper sighs, clearing his throat and catching Julie's eye (or rather light blue eyeshadow), the woman brandishing a hand quietly as if to dismiss Sniper's woeful reasoning that Scout's mood is his doing.

"All I'm sayin' is that maybe if I weren't cookin'n mowin' the lawn _and_ entertainin' guests—"

"Right, but it's a little difficult for me to sympathise with ya after havin' nine kids and jugglin' you boys with dinner and_everything else goin' on an adult's gotta deal with_!"

Sniper looks up as a distinct edge of impatience actually resides on the tip of Julie's tongue, the woman clearly harbouring little tolerance for Scout and his whiny excuses.

"And I didn't have _half_ the food budget we have now; welcome to real life, Larry," Julie snaps, and Sniper twiddles his thumbs nervously, hoping that the awkward silence that falls between them subsides quickly. Julie grimaces once more at the marinated pork before placing it back onto the man's plate and poking at the now hardened mashed potatoes.

"He usually cooks so much better than this," she whispers as Scout extends a hand in front of the Australian, taking the plate from the table and scrapping the uneaten food in the trash. Sniper catches a glimpse of the young man's stoic expression, his muscles locked into a hardened, deadpan display.

"Do you cook, Jack?" Julie asks the man lightly, Sniper startling silently as the woman addresses him in a manner that suggested that from him an answer was to be expected.

"I—I mean—I _can_, I s'pose," Jack hiccups. "When I still lived in Australia I wasn't hostin' _five course dinner parties_, but I could open a can o'beans 'nd heat 'em up well enough," Sniper flashes the woman a soft smile, Julie narrowing her eyes pleasantly, quietly indicating for the man to go on.

"I relied on myself for food out in the wild; I'd kill a deer 'nd skin it, eat its meat for the rest o'the bloody year, y'know? I'd only shoot t'kill if it were a question o'safety otherwise. Anyway, 'cause o'bein' alone in the wild with just the van y'learn t'keep meals simple, aye? If y'can't cook it with a bonfire 'nd some boilin' water then don't pack it.

Though nowadays I mostly eat vegetables; can't keep meat in the camper, really, 'nd I've never been too big on preservatives so I like my veggies t'be organic, locally farmed, 'nd in season—"

"Uhuh, and what's your favourite meal to make?" Julie cuts him off, though careful to maintain a sweet and patient tone.

"Well, I—I—," Sniper scratches behind his neck, frowning slightly as he unintentionally stalls in answering. "I guess—soups, I dunno—I throw whatever I've got in the camper in some water, sprinkle pepper in it, some vegemite, let it dissolve in the water—y'got yourself a meal, Miss Julie,"

"Larry's always been into cookin', he was always in the kitchen with Mommy growin' up! 'Course today he didn't have his eyes on the meals so he didn't do as well as he _normally_ does. I swear Alex—his oldest brother, you saw him earlier—he can barely even make himself a bowl of cereal! Luc always cooks, too, so I know that probably influenced Larry—yeah, so soups, huh? So what's your favourite broth? Beef? Chicken—?"

"Ma, Jack doesn't care about cookin', alright?" Lawrence sighs, putting the spotted dishes away neatly, closing the groaning, splintered cabinet doors, the chipping white paint sticking to Scout's palms, sudsy from the dishwater.

"Well he should if you're spendin' all this time with him, I want my Larry to be eatin' healthy!" Julie barks, turning her head and giving her youngest son a stern, motherly look. The blue headband in her hair slips slightly as she cranes her head, the motion causing the stagnant air to move about, Sniper catching a sharp whiff of the product spray she must sheen it with.

"That ain't his responsibility, Ma, come on," Scout rolls his eyes as he dries his hands on a knit dishtowel, spotted brown, coordinated with every other addition to the apartment. Sniper can't help but notice the way his soft, properly spoken words deteriorate into his typical Bostonian moodiness the more his patience with his mother wanes. "He ain't just some lunchlady,"

"Larry I thought I asked you to use the fancier lunch plates," She scolds, disregarding his last statement and folding her thin arms across her busty chest. "And not the white ones, they've got all those scratches all over 'em—"

"_Ma, it doesn't matter—_"

"It matters if you want your friend here to leave with an impression of us other than how slobby we are!"

"No, Miss—_please_, I have Lawrence sleepin' on a mattress in a _van_, I promise you I'm not judgin' or holdin' any of you up t'any sort o'standards," Jack clears his throats, his voice light with a bit of nervously uttered laughter. The man wears neither his hat nor his glasses, thus he less able to easily hide his squinted, skeptical stare behind the tinted shades, his raised eyebrows behind the brim of his slouch hat. Scout, who takes one look at the tense Australian and rolls his eyes out of aggravation toward his mother, simply continues putting away the dishes in silence. Any other time, any other place, he would have been quick to add onto the topic of the low maintenance camper van he and Sniper spent the majority of their time in. Considering both battle to win over the hard earned approval of the middle aged woman however, he holds back on mentioning that a man who hordes his own urine and eats with plastic forks and knives was currently experiencing a lifestyle well near luxury.

"A van—A van—and how old is the van? I saw it down there; looks kinda rusty, like you haven't really been cleanin' it too well,"

"Ma, he cleans it—"

"She's about twenty," Sniper nods, bringing his leg to rest upon his other knee. "Sure, shes a little rusted in some spots but I promise she goes, 'nd that the camper itself is's clean as white linen,"

"She? So what, do you talk to it?"

"Ma, seriously—_stop_,"

"Stop _what_, Larry?!" Julie gasps, mortified that her son would even insinuate there was a _what_ to inquire about. She places a soft hand to her chest, mouth wide in a silent gasp as she watches her son quietly, awaiting an answer.

"Stop screenin' him like I'm askin' you to adopt some bum I picked up at the bus station! Seriously, you're just makin' us look stupid,"

"I am not screenin' him, Larry, I'm just tryin' to maybe get to know the complete _stranger_ you've just brought in here on a more personal level, cut me some slack here!"

"He ain't just some _stranger_, Ma, Jack means a lot to me!"

"And I think that's _great_, Larry, it's _wonderful_ to finally see you makin' some friends after all these years, but I would be a bad mother if I didn't make sure the man my son's so crazy about was a good person to idolize!"

"Yeah, maybe if I were _ten years old_, then I'd understand the fuss, but—"

"Honestly, Lawrence, it's completely understandable that your Mum's gonna wanna make sure her youngest son's not hoppin' about with a bad boy," Sniper adds, nodding curtly to Scout; he hopes it would certainly earn him points to side with the woman and her err of caution.

"Nah, it's _not_ understandable, she's bein' ridiculous and we all know it—I'm twenty five years old, Ma, 'nd if you keep lettin' her talk like this, Jack, she's just gonna be doing this all day—"

"Do _what_ all day, Larry?! I don't understand what you're talkin' about, but you know what—I don't even wanna know what you think I'm gonna be doin', 'cause I think you're grumpy,"

"Ma, I'm not _grumpy_—"

"I think you might need to take a nap nap," Julie tisks, rising from her chair and taking the plates from her son's hands.

"_Ma, I don't need a nap_,"

"Larry, I think you do, especially if you think it's okay to just take that sort of tone with me!"

"Cut 'er some slack, love, you're her baby," Sniper smiles, resting his hands behind his head.

"'Nd if you were _my_ baby I'd be protective of ya too…"

"Speakin' of babies," Julie immediately pipes up, straightening in her chair, alive and vibrant with a rejuvenating excitement that spreads her lips into a dazzling smile at the rugged Australian before her.

"What do you think of kids, huh? Do you want any?"

Sniper blinks rapidly at the bedazzled woman who rests her chin in the palms of her hands, her pink elbows digging into the cherry print table cloth. Children, Sniper presumes, must have been a passion of hers; even the potential of a man she knew for a total of five or so hours thinking about starting a family excites her greatly. Considering she had seven of her own and the fire that smolders in her eyes as she allows the concept of offspring to rev within her, the Australian assumes the right answer regarding children may or may not aid in winning the woman's affection.

"Er—"

"'Cause Larry's brother Christopher is the only one with kids right now, and I'll tell ya—my parents were _really_ Catholic, so they didn't believe in birth control; I came from a ton of brothers and sisters like Larry did and all seven of these boys were their lives until my parents passed, may they rest in peace—and each and every one of my twelve siblings had at least _two_children,"

Sniper's mind teeters as if on a wooden boat cast upon uproarious waves at sea, the thought of so many children poxed about in a single family for a man who had only one sister nauseating at best.

"And here my boys are and they aren't even _tryin'_ to pretend like they have any interest in continuin' the Fitzpatrick line!"

_'Guess it wouldn't comfort 'er t'know I don't plan on startin' a family anytime soon'_ Sniper gulps, though it wasn't _him_ under the scrutiny of Julie's ambiguous passive aggression; the woman sneers at Scout, who stands with his lower back leaning against the cool imitation marble of the counter, doing all he can to avoid his mother's eye. As things looked, it mattered little whether Scout had plans to eventually become a father or not; sex between himself and the Australian would never result in pregnancy, no matter _how_ often they had it—their sex being something Julie had no idea even existed in the first place…

"Seriously, I'm startin' to wonder if maybe I should have let them near more girls growin' up…"

_'I'm glad y'didn't if it meant Lawrence would've found some dame…'_ Sniper muses, though in the eyes of an aspiring grandmother it's only natural that she regards her son's disinterest in the female sex as a fault of her parenting; who _knew_what sort of reaction the woman would have to Scout coming out? By the way things were looking the two were to be a couple for quite some time, he'd have to come out eventually…

Jack would prefer not to think about it; he shifts a little in his chair, Scout drumming the ends of his fingers against the counter and casting a glance at the ancient cobwebs that have congregated in the space between the wall and the refrigerator.

"You know speakin' of babies I'd really like you to see Chris sometime this week, Larry, I know he'll just be dyin' to see _you_—Ginny, too, she's always askin' where you are,"

"Is she?"

"'Course she is, Larry, you're that exotic uncle—the one who's only there every blue moon, you know? Gosh I wish Luc and your brother would come back already, it shouldn't take that long to pick up Paul," she adds, checking a plastic clock mounted on the wall, the only décor short of grease splatters and peeling paint.

"Wait, he's comin' over? Like over, over? I thought Luc was just givin' him a ride 'cause he got stranded?"

"'Course he is, Larry! There's no way you're just gonna be in town and he's not gonna see you! But you don't sound too excited!"

"Nah, Ma, that's—that's _great_, I can't wait to see him, but—"

"But what?"

"Nothin', I just—I know we're kinda a big family and I don't wanna give poor Jack a heart attack introducin' him to everybody in one day,"

"Oh come on, he's only met me and Alex, Paul isn't gonna break his back—"

"Ma, Jack's been drivin' the past five days straight, he's way more exhausted than you—"

A single, irregular intake of breath from the Australian interrupts Scout's defensive monologue, the older man's silence having been no coincidence; Jack tucks his head into the crook his crossed arms rested upon the table provide, eyes shut lightly, his breathing back however to being theoretical, as it is completely untraceable save the soft, occasional rise of his mass.

"See? Told ya," Scout grumbles, slipping the brown vest from the man's body and draping it lovingly across Jack's shoulders like a blanket. "I told you he was tired, Ma…"

"Well—sorry, Larry, I never said he wasn't…" She eyes her son skeptically as he runs a maudlin hand across the man's slumbering face, Scout clearing his throat curtly as he meets his mother's questioning gaze.

"He's knocked out,"

"You sure you don't want to move him to your bedroom?"

"Nah, this is the most sleep he's gotten in a while, just let 'im rest here for now," Scout whispers, exiting the kitchen briefly only to return with a chintz, deflated throw pillow from the sofa, propping it gently under the man's head. "Least the thing don't smell bad I guess…"

"So who is this man, Lawrence," Julie asks her son unamusedly unabashedly, and most of all, unprecedentedly. She stands next to him against the counter, arms folded. "It's the only thing I wanna know,"

"Ma, he's just someone I've gotten to know back at the 'Fort, okay?"

"_Just someone?!_ Larry, _just someone_ isn't exactly _'hoppin' in your van and spending our whole vacation with ya'_ material;_Just someone_ isn't someone you're literally goin' to bring home to show Mom,"

"Fine, Ma, he's my _best friend_, now what's it matter?!"

"I don't get it, all these years you couldn't make a single friend—"

"Well there's a first time for everything, Ma,"

"But why _him_? I—I just don't get it,"

"What is there to _get_, Ma—"

"Listen sweetie, I can tell you're growin' a little irritated with me, but hear me out," Julie whispers, raising her arms meekly and stealing a glance at the sleeping Australian.

"I'm listenin'," Scout snaps impatiently, arms folded across his chest.

"I just don't understand why you're getting' so defensive…"

"Probably because you're standin' here judgin' my friend!"

"Look, I'm just gonna be honest with you, Larry; he just doesn't seem _right_ to me—"

"Yeah, to _you_," Scout spits, his temper rising, though staying subdued in its staggering, Scout always having been gentler with his mother.

"Larry, why are you actin' up like this?"

"What's your problem with Jack, Ma, just spit it out already—no more questions, why don't you like him?"

"It's—it's not that I don't _like_ him, it's just I don't know if maybe I like the way he's—he's—"

"_What_?"

"He seems a little _primitive_…"

"What?" Scout laughs disbelievingly, turning his head to make sure the mentioned is still resting peacefully against the table.

"He—he's got teeth on that hat of his, and that _accent_ sounds like he hasn't spent a day in school, and he's got a little stubble, and—"

"We've been drivin', he hasn't shaved in a couple days…."

"He's got all those knives and machetes, what's he use 'em for?"

"He's an outdoorsman, Ma, he explores the Outback and stuff—"

"Uhuh, and is that what he tells you so you don't see it comin' when he chops you up and makes you into one of his soups?"

Scout grimaces, folding his arms and turning away from the laughing woman.

"Larry I was just kidding, sweetie—kinda,"

"He's not gonna chop me up, okay?"

"But seriously, all I wanna know is why _him_? After all these years of you not havin' a single friend, and you find someone over on your base you're just so crazy about—"

"I dunno, war makes exceptions of things," Scout sighs, repeating the very same words Sniper had used to explain their unlikely friendship when questioned a couple days ago.

"And here I was thinkin' you'd be on the battlefield and way too busy to be makin' friends,"

"Well clearly you haven't spent enough time on one—look, does it really matter, Ma?!"

"Yes, Larry, it does—I want my little boy to be safe and well cared for, I want him to be happy—"

"And I am, Ma," Scout nods, staring the woman in the eye. "Seriously, Jack's one of the best things that's ever happened to me—he _is_ the best thing that's happened to me. He's an amazin' friend, you don't have a _clue_, Ma—he does _way too freakin' much for me_ and I tell him that all the time, too—seriously, he's like, selfless or somethin'—he wanted to spent these two weeks alone, in the mountains, but he let me come 'cause I wasn't plannin' on leavin' the base for leave—"

"Oh great Larry, why would you do that to the poor man? He said he wanted to be alone, so you shouldn't have bothered him! And just _why_ weren't you plannin' on comin' home for leave?" She adds sternly, glaring down at her youngest son.

"Look, I didn't wanna be near Luc, alright? He—he's an ass and you know how he treats me, and I didn't wanna have to deal with that—It ain't about him though—So Jack let me come with him, and he's done _all_ of this stuff for me this last week, and he even turned around just so he could drive me out here…"

"Why are you doin' this to the poor man, Larry, why are you usin' him like this—?!"

"I ain't usin' him, that's the thing; he's doin' all this for me, and I ain't gotta clue where I should even _start_ with you, tellin' you why he's amazing, you know? You're over here questionin' him when to be honest I'm over here questionin' anybody _but_him,"

"Uhuh—I see…"

"I know you're paranoid and stuff and I love you and understand and I'm _glad you care_ but please, Ma—_please_—"

"Please _what_, Lawrence—"

"Give him a chance…"

"Well, I'm—I'm tryin'! I'm askin' him questions, and—"

"Can 'em,"

"Can what?"

"Your stupid questions,"

"Now Larry I'll let you two be friends, but you're gonna have to let Mommy get to know him, too,"

"Fine, but quit actin' like he's a freakin' boogey man,"

"Well maybe to me he is, I don't know how Australians usually act,"

"They're _people_, Ma…"

"Alright, well listen, I've got laundry goin' downstairs in the basement and I'm sure the load's been done for a while—"

"You want me to get the clothes?"

"No sweetie, you stay up here and wake up your friend, Luc should be back pretty soon with your brothers," Julie instructs, taking a hamper from the living room and slipping out the front door.

"Jack…wake up…" Scout shakes the man who still sleeps completely knocked out against the table, the man startling, opening his eyes slowly.

"Hey,"

Lawrence's weak smile elicits a lazy, drawn out yawn and stretch from the waking Australian, who returns Scout's subtle grin with a light one of his own.

"How long was I out?"

"Not very, maybe like ten minutes or somethin'…"

"What'd I miss?"

"Nothin', just Ma bein' a goof," Scout rolls his eyes, easing Sniper back to consciousness by rubbing the man's shoulder's comfortingly.

"Yeah, you were gettin' a little heated back there, love…"

"'S 'cause Ma was bein' a dope! She's over here askin' you the dumbest shit—I love her to death, Jack, don't get me wrong, I_love_ Ma, but she's never acted like that before. I tried stayin' patient with 'er 'nd stuff, but I guess I just didn't know how to handle 'er,"

"Yeah, your Mum…I don't get the impression she's all too fond of me…" Sniper attempts to joke, Scout rolling his eyes and sitting next to him.

"It ain't that, she just thinks it's weird that I'm just showin' up with friends'n wants to get to know ya, I guess—I wasn't very social growin' up, I guess she's not used to it or whatever, but still, she's actin' ridiculous,"

"You sure I haven't done anythin' t'rile her up?"

"Jack, you haven't done nothin' wrong; I even _told_ her 's 'cause of you she can even say I'm in town right now…"

"That should help put in a good word for me…"

"Look, it ain't you, okay? My family's just weird as Hell," Scout assures him, peeking around the corner, checking to make sure his mother hasn't returned from the cellar.

"You kiddin' me? You're all a cute little bunch; watchin' you with your Mum 's about the cutest thing I've seen in a good while,"

"Yeah, cute—speakin' o' Ma, she prolly ain't done with the questions,"

"'S alright, I'm willin' t'take it slow," Sniper stands and cracks his lower back, slipping the brown vest back around his body. "'Specially if I'm gonna be reintroducin' myself as your _man_ at some point later in life,"

Scout groans overtop the man's sentence and his gentle laughter at Scout's reaction, the young man dragging his hands across his face before shaking his head.

"Yeah, we ain't tellin' her shit 'til _after_ we're married; sure, she'll cry for years about not bein' able to plan the wedding'n shit, but trust me, it'll be worth it…"

"We're gettin' married?!"

"'S a joke wombat—but nah, she's gonna start askin' questions a mile a minute when she comes back up those stairs and sees you're awake. Just be yourself, alright? You're a great dude and it won't take long for her to realize I ain't just runnin' around with a deranged sniper. But if she asks what religion you are, just please, _please_, for the love of _God_, Jack, just say you're Irish Catholic,"

Sniper chuckles, nodding in agreement.

"No seriously; don't tell her about your views on the universe or none o'that shit—you know that story you told me about hearin' God that one time when you said you were rootin' around in that abandoned church? Don't tell her 'bout that,"

"'lright,"

"Tell her your favourite saint is Saint Caidoc and Fricor, 'kay? Please,"

"Anythin' else I should know?"

"You want a million grandkids," Scout smiles, the two turning to face the woman who juggles two overflowing laundry baskets in her arms, the bump of her hair the only visible indication that she hadn't been consumed entirely by the clothes of her family. She sighs as she places the baskets down in the living room, ambling calmly into the kitchen as she catches her breath.

"Ho Goodness, by the way it's really startin' to heat up you'd think we weren't gonna have a real spring this year! I swear it's gonna turn straight into summer—oh hey there, Mister Australia, I see you're awake again…"

"Oh—yeah, sorry, Miss Julie, I know I turned your poor little table into a bed…"

"It's no problem, dear, Larry said you were pooped—least you don't drool like Larry does…"

"'S true, he drools all over the bed—"

"So then you sleep together?"

Scout blanches exactly as Sniper jolts awake with a violent hiccup; that was certainly what his words _implied_. Scout starts coughing roughly, though whether the heaves are faked or authentic Sniper can't tell. Ma seems confused by their sudden tenseness and inability to take two breaths in succession, proving that they must have interpreted the question in a manner much different than the one she meant to ask.

"Only when—y'know, this last week, 'cause—y'know—the camper—'nd—we're on vacation," Sniper utters nervously, Julie raising an eyebrow at her sputtering son before turning back to Sniper.

"Well as long as Larry has enough room to stretch out, it hurts him if he doesn't have _just_ the right amount of room to lay down, he's got a _very_ sensitive back …"

Jack, for the sake of maintaining appropriate, unambiguously platonic conversation, chooses to withhold some choice words about Lawrence and just how _sensitive_ he knew his back was. Turning the Bostonian on was as simple for the Australian as lifting up his shirt and running his hands down Scout's naked back, or massaging it after a particularly gruesome battle. Apart from that he often harped on about his back pains, thus Sniper was always careful to give him just enough room to stretch as his mother had suggested seconds ago.

"You know Larry's always had back problems growin' up," Julie explains, patting her son on the cheek. "I even took 'im to see a chiropractor, saved up for _months_ for that visit—doctor just said he was havin' growin' pains, that he was probably goin' to get nice'n tall; well here he is, only five eight,"

"_Only_?! Ma, I'm like, six inches taller than you,"

Sniper laughs, Scout responding to his amusement by punching him lightly on the shoulder.

"Australia, huh?" Julie smiles, flashing him a soft one in between her folding clothes and placing them back into the basket. "So then do you surf?"

"No," Sniper chuckles, Scout rolling his eyes silently and taking a handful of clothes from his mother's hands and resting them on the sofa in the living room.

"He's still a stereotype, though—he like, hikes'n stuff,"

"Oh do you? Well that's interesting. You ever sleep in a tent?"

"…Yes?" Sniper laughs again, Julie nodding as Scout stands behind her, dumbfounded by the questions she's truly asking.

"Didn't actually make the camper nice 'nd _homey_ 'till after livin' here for a few years; back when I was still rootin' around the Bush back home she didn't have the bath or the kitchenette, did all my business outside,"

"So then did you use leaves to—you _know_, go potty? Did you ever get any poison oak on your—you know—"

"Ma," Scout clears his throat, Sniper laughing deeply in his chair at the table. "I can proudly say I've never had ominously itchy privates, Miss Julie, it's a perfectly valid question,"

"See? I dunno why you're lookin' at me like that, Larry, Jack said it was fine—so where're you from?"

"Adelaide, maybe you've heard of it?"

"Adelaide? You mean like St. Adelaide?" Julie grins, Sniper opening his mouth to argue that the city's namesake originated from Queen Adelaide and not the Saint, though Scout nodding his head furiously behind her causes Sniper to simply grin and nod. "It's the capital of South Australia, 's a nice little place, but I can't say I'm one t'really stick around in one spot for too long,"

"So then are you a nomad?"

"Er, I mean, I don't _do battle_ or herd horses, but I take the van 'nd see the world, 's all pretty nice,"

"A classy nomad," Scout adds.

"So then you know a lot about the wildlife, huh? You know I read in a magazine once that those koalas, you know—_koalas_,"

"'Course,"

"They—they only eat those _stoner leaves_,"

"Stoner leaves?!" Sniper retorts, coughing to hide a smile that emerges on his lips, trying with all his might to maintain a straight face. Seconds later however the man breaks, doubled over with a laughter so genuine his breath falls short and he clutches his stomach.

"I musta said somethin' funny…" she whispers to Lawrence, who smirks and hides his own laughter by carrying more clothes into the living room.

"You know the magazine said those koalas were getting _high_ and they were lazy all day!"

"Well—koalas're lazy little things, but they can run _very_ quickly too—much like Lawrence—gettin' him outta bed's a chore every day, but he's easily the fastest person I know,"

"Comparin' me to a koala—"

"If only you were half as cute—"

"Ooo, Larry, he got ya good," Julie notes, Scout scowling and making yet another trip to the living room. "So then what's the deal with the stoner leaves?"

"Eucalyptus? Sorry t'say, but smokin' or consumin' it'll hardly get ya high, but there _are_ special oils on the leaves that can clear up real nasty bronchial—"

"_Boring_, don't talk my Ma t'death, Jack,"

"Jus' thought maybe I'd clear up a couple _misconceptions_ 'bout stoner leaves,"

"Now Larry, you need to be sweeter than that,"

"I tell 'im all the time, Miss…"

"Aw, come on, don't you _both_ start actin' like I'm six."

The front door can be heard opening in the living room, as can the distinct stomping of three grown man slipping through it.

"Oh! What's going on in 'ere?" Luc pokes his head in throw the entrance to the kitchen in the living room, the man tossing his windbreaker and keys on the counter, his blonde hair disheveled as if he'd spent the last few hours in front of an industrial power fan instead of helping his stepson with car troubles. "'ave you not already eaten lunch?"

"Too bad, Puke, we ate everything already," Scout mumbles, Julie rolling her eyes and kissing the Frenchman who ignores Scouts insult curtly.

"We had to throw it out,"

"_MA_—"

"Larry left the porkchops in the oven too long,"

"Yeah well maybe if _you'd_ mowed the fuckin' lawn you were supposed to," Scout spits at the Frenchman, who raises an eyebrow at his youngest stepson.

"_Oh, I didn't know your ability to actually cook a decent meal was contingent on zhe consistency of my 'ousekeeping schedule,_"

"Larry don't use those words, they're no good for a gentleman like you,"

"Yeah but when Alex says fuck—"

"Larry I said don't use those words," Julie repeats, Luc smiling innocently at the Australian who simply sits in the same chair he'd been in since they initially sat down for lunch.

"Seriously Larry, just 'cause you're grown that doesn't mean you just quit bein' the baby," Alex chuckles as he brings his hand to whack his youngest brother on the back of his head. The brunette grimaces at his red headed sibling, checking about the kitchen to assure his mother's absence before hissing an aggressive "hey fuck you," under his breath and curling his hand into a mocking fist at the smirking Alex.

"You hit me and I'm tellin' Mom,"

"Real mature, dude,"

"_MOM_—!" Alex shouts, Scout rising from his chair and attempting to tackle his sturdy brother to silence him. Sniper laughs as the two stagger backwards, knocking a loosely nailed spice rack off the greying white walls and sending it tumbling to the floor in a violent crash.

"_WHAAAAAT_?!" The woman roars, sticking her head in through the arch of the doorless entry into the kitchen, eyes seething with a furious red. The two stand innocently with their hands clasped primly behind their back. Sniper sits transfixed at the way the two brothers silently but efficiently kick the broken spice rack so the cast iron shards hide behind the heels of their shoes, the spilled herbs also being swept with subtlety into a peaking mound behind their legs.

"Sorry Ma," Scout whispers, looking up from the ground and eyeing her innocently. She glares at them and shares a quick look of disbelief with Jack before continuing her conversation with Luc in the living room. The two exchange hushed and worried glances. Somehow from their arched eyebrows and dilating pupils the two boys decipher some sort of message confirmed by the simultaneous nodding of their heads; thus began their long refined tango. Lawrence nods twice to the red head, who takes the message and responds with one of his own. Lawrence shifts to cover the mess with his body while Alex assumes the role of quietly slipping past their mother and into the utility closet with a broom and dustpan.

"Alex what're you doin' in there—" Scout flinches as the skeptical voice of his mother follows the eldest of her children into the kitchen.

"Nothin' Ma, don't worry 'bout it," Alex shrugs her off, the two once again scrambling to sweep the mess and dumping the pan into the garbage. Scout ties the bag with ease, Alex catching it with the same lightness that suggests this is a routine they've practiced since childhood.

"Just takin' out the garbage, Mom," he smiles, the apartment door closing behind him.

"_Bloody Hell_ that was awfully efficient," Sniper sighs at the no longer nervous Scout, who wipes his brow and exhales deeply having escaped his mother's scolding.

"Ma thought we were angels, nah; we just had a system,"

"That's strange, you'd think you all would _want_ t'see each other get punished,"

"Heh, Ma's policy was if one of us gets into some shit, we _all_ get into it; guess it was too hard for her to keep straight who fucked up and got punished and who didn't,"

"Oo, 's harsh," Sniper mumbles, Scout nodding in agreement, checking under the counter for any pieces of evidence of their mess.

"She's gonna notice all her racks 'nd spices missin',"

"Hey, it didn't matter if she found out what happened, all that mattered was that it wasn't _your_ ass gettin' the paddle for it; seriously, my brother was twenty two'n runnin' down the street 'cause of that fuckin' thing,"

"Nah, see, Larry's got it all wrong, bro; for the other six of us it was always as long as _Larry_ gets the paddle we didn't give a shit,"

Both startle at the smooth, slow voice that interjects itself into the conversation with casual fluidity, Scout grinning at the grungy young man who rests his dirt blackened, greasy arm against the table. With the man's presence wafted an indisputable stench of motor oil, which Sniper connects to the blackened sheen that settles in the pores of his tanned skin he'd mistakened for dirt. His hair, also a chestnut brow like his youngest brother's, though much, much longer in length (and pulled back into an equally grimy ponytail at the base of his neck).

"Fuck you too, Paul," Scout smiles before taking his taller, ganglier older brother into a strong hug despite the light coat of grease that now plagues Scout's cotton blue shirt.

"It's been a while, kiddo,"

"Holy shit, hey Paul!" Alex grins as he closes the door behind him, throwing the middle sibling a light wave. "It's been a couple weeks, or whenever the Hell that was you last came over here with Rosa—and almost made Mom pop a fuckin' _vein_—"

"I thought I told you boys to quit usin' those words! I raised gentlemen, not delinquents," Julie spits from the couch, her physical being joining her voice as the entirety of her tiny frame stomps into the kitchen to glare at her three children.

"We ain't _boys_, anymore, Ma—"

"The heck you aren't, Larry, you're barely legal!"

"He's almost twenty five, Mom," Alex laughs, the woman smirking before smacking him playfully on the arm.

"You know better than to backtalk me," she snaps, and Sniper has to marvel at how such a petite woman of her beauty and daintiness still commands an ominous fierceness to her to the point where Sniper was certain she could take all seven of her boys down in a dirty fist fight.

"Jeeze, Little Larry's _legal_," Paul sighs, swiping a moist hand through Scout's hair, Sniper swearing he stains it black too like everything else the man touched. "Last time I saw ya you were about half this tall and barely twenty, man,"

"Time flies, huh? I remember when _you_ were still gettin' your ass wiped—"

"Alex,"

"Sorry, Mom,"

"Goodness, you know if Chris weren't at work I'd have half the mind to call him up and tell him to get down here too, this is the first time in a while I've had this many of my children in the kitchen at once since you all started _movin' away and gettin' lives of your own_—and it's not like Larry, Will, Roy or Anthony ever _call…_"

"Well, I couldn't believe it! When you guys came and got me when I was stranded on the freeway—"

"You're a _mechanic_, you couldn't fix your own car?!"

"Shut up, Larry—but yeah, when you and Luc said he was in town I knew I couldn't just let you guys take me back home—"

"_Home_, huh? Sounds like maybe you've finally gotten a nice new place? Maybe in a decent neighbourhood _without_ drugged up roommates that are stealin' your cash and comin' after your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, packin' next week; Rosa's parents said we could move into the basement," Paul explains lethargically, clearly oblivious to the scowl his mother makes at the news that Miss Rosa was still in her son's life, whose name Sniper had grown to associate with a highly promiscuous girl who maybe donned skin tight red dresses and heels much too scanty for public.

"Classy, move into your girlfriend's parent's _basement_—"

"Shut up, dude, 'least I'm outta _Mom's_—" Paul retorts, Lawrence "ooooo!" ing loudly at the quip of his brother, Alex folding his arms and leaning against the counter.  
>"Ugh, you boys, I swear," Julie shakes her head and leaving for the living room again. "I can hardly take ya now I don't have to,"<p>

"Love you too, Mom," Paul calls after her, looking about the room.

"Where's Luc? And who's this guy?" he asks, gesturing curiously to the chuckling Sniper.

"Oh yeah, this is my friend Jack, I met him at the 'Fort,"

"You're the first t'notice me on your own," the Australian grins, taking Paul's hand into his and shaking it firmly.

"Dude, nice accent…"

"I know, Larry just brings home random ass Australians, but he's pretty chill," Alex shrugs, casting Jack a smile. "I didn't notice him for an hour…"

"Uh, that _random ass Australian_ happens to be my best friend and ride out here—"

"Calm down, Larry, you act like we're insultin' your girlfriend or somethin'—"

"Plus 's not like that isn't exactly what I am, _random arse Australian_ is pretty spot on…"

"Australia, huh? That's badass, you must get maaaad pussy…"

"Er—yeah, 'course—all the time," Sniper laughs, smiling at the reddening Scout from the corner of his eye.

"I bet Mom's asked all _sorts_ of intelligent questions," Alex rolls his eyes, Scout growling at the mention of his mother's behavior.

"Dude, it was fuckin' ridiculous—"

"LARRY IF YOU DON'T QUIT USIN' THOSE WORDS!"

The kitchen goes quiet, the four men however laughing into their hands, trying profusely to hide their finding humour in their mother's serious request.

"So then that's cute, you guys just like, party together when you're not fightin'? Speakin' of which Larry, you gotta fill me in on all your war stories,"

"Later—not in front of Ma,"

"'Bout half of 'em 're gonna end with '_'nd then Jack saved me_—"

"Hey!" Scout snaps as his brothers laugh hysterically, throwing the man a silently middle finger.

"And then the other half're gonna end with_and then Lawrence kicked Jack's fuckin' ass!_" Scout peeks in the living room, his mother occupied by an episode of _Gunsmoke_, the picture of the television actually clear enough to decipher human beings and synced with the audio.

"Aw man, sounds like you guys've been through some shit,"

"It's rough out there, but it ain't nothin' we can't handle,"

"But you're best friends, huh—you guys like—ever sneak into town and like—have a threesome with some bitches?"

"PAUL DON'T TALK ABOUT THOSE DIRTY THINGS WITH LARRY!"

"_How come she only hears me?!_" he mouths wildly to the others, rolling his eyes and sticking his tongue out at the back of the woman's head. "What're you guys doin' all holed up in here, though? Seriously, you and Jack should get out, show him a bit of the city,"

"Yeah, what is there to even show him though?"

"Larry could always take him to a Sox game, they're playin' today—"

"YES!" Lawrence shouts excitedly in agreement, nodding profusely at Alex's suggestion.

"Whoa, Larry's still nuts about 'em I guess…"

"Dude, you don't get how much—the Sox—dude…" Scout sputters with genuine excitement, actually clawing onto his middle brother's front like an excited dog dancing on its heels.

"Is it still rainin' though?"

"Nah, Luc's out there trimmin' Mom's hedges, plus if they take an umbrella—"

"Dude, it could fuckin' _hurricane_ in that stadium, I wouldn't miss a game for the world if I had a chance to go," Scout sighs, Sniper unsure whether the stars in his eyes are there or if he imagines them.

"I haven't been to an actual _Sox_ game in like, fifteen years…"

"This ain't about _you_ though, Larry, it's up to Jack if he wants to go…"

"Y'know, I've been wantin' t'see a real baseball game ever since meetin' Lawrence,"Jack sighs, smiling at Scout as his face lights up indisputably. "Plus I brought 'im out here so he could do what _he_ want,"

"Jeeze Larry, this dude spoils you more than Ma used to!"

"I ain't spoiled!" Scout snaps, throwin' a middle finger up at his two brothers before turning his gaze to Sniper. "You sure you wanna go, Jack? 'Cause I mean don't feel like you gotta take me or go 'cause of me,"

"Yeah, 'course I'm sure, I've been wantin' t'see the Sox for some time, see what all the fuss is about," Sniper nods, leaning forward and whispering ambiguously into the young man's ear.

"Anythin' t'make you happy, love,"

"Aw _jeeze_, Jack!" Scout grimaces, pushing the laughing man away but smiling smally at him when the attention of his brothers deviates elsewhere.

"Alright, so who all's goin'? The game starts at 6:10,"  
>"Nah, I can't dude, got a customer at the body shop in a couple hours—can't reschedule, I'll see you tomorrow though," Paul pats Scout on the shoulder sympathetically. "Plus you know, Luc's gotta drive me back to the shop, then I gotta get my car towed and brought back so I can fix it <em>there<em>—I'm sorry, Larry…"

"And I fuckin' hate baseball," Alex groans.

"'Cause _you're_ fuckin nuts,"

"I'm sure mom and Luc'll go with you guys," Paul adds, Scout instantly growing colder at the mere insinuation of there possibly being a chance of Luc _maybe_ going.

"I dunno, ask 'em, we'll hang out tomorrow though, alright?"

Scout nods, disappointed but wasting not time in assuming a wide toothed grin and sticking his head through the entry way into the living room.

"_MA, HAVE YOU SEEN MY FACEPAINT?!_"


	18. Degredation of Heirarchies

"Lawrence are you sure y'really need t'paint your face too? I mean, you've already got the shirt, the pants, the wristbands, I think I even see some beads around your neck, y'got flags 'nd socks 'nd _shoes_,"

"Are you serious? Do you gotta ask?" Scout scoffs. "What kind of fan do you think I am?!"

Sniper, who waits timorously in the splintered frame of the bedroom door through which the young man slipped only seconds before, eyes Scout both with eyes widened and unobstructed by his glasses, sputtering the nonsensical beginnings to an answer to Lawrence's question. They taper off quickly however, the uttered phonemes themselves lasting no longer than a second at the most before Jack ultimately quashes the overall idea to _respond_ so quickly in the first place. It was an excellent question the Bostonian posed, one easily likened to questioning _the absurd_ or _reason_. Where the question of just what exactly made the cases of the latter concepts such existentialist conundrums, Sniper couldn't even say a sliver of sense applied to Scout and his high regard of Sox fanboyism and the Heirarchy associated with it. "The same kind o'fan as the ones without face paint? I dunno, God forbid the umpire can't see y'supportin' 'im from a mile away,"

"All I'm sayin' is your ass is gonna be so fuckin' embarrassed when you go to that game and see you're the only one not wearin' _shit_ like a dumbass,"

"I think the Sox have enough self confidence in themselves that they can do without one Superfan,"

"So I'm a Superfan?" Scout asks, narrowing his eyes at his white faced reflection, caked with face paint, a contemptuous smirk curling along the edges of lips smudged bright red in what Sniper considered a _self-defamation_ as opposed to an honourific get up in the name of his favourite team. The Australian ponders why the young man had even asked the question as if he didn't already _know_ the answer; sporting the form fitting, red and white stripped jersey of a Mister Ray Culp (Scout's favourite player and an ace pitcher) a similarly tinted hat reminiscent of the topper the cat of the Cat in the Hat wore, Sox sweatbands, kneesocks, red trousers, closing the display with red and white baseball shoes, labeling Scout as anything other than a _Superfan_ was to Jack utterly preposterous.

"You sure you don't want a shirt or nothin'?" Scout calls from inside of his dusty, disorganized closet. Throwing the man a wad of soft, weightless cotton seconds later, Scout decides Sniper's input wasn't all too necessary despite his having asked the older man. Sniper shakes the flowing material to better distinguish it for what it even _was_, the fabric almost wetly cold like unworn silk left to slither in shaded water. It had to've been a minimum of five years old, a conclusion drawn upon both by the sizing and the faded dye of the red word _Boston_ seeping into the black-grey material. Though Scout was rather small and lean, he had a width to him nonetheless; the shirt Sniper holds in his hands however suggesting the Tee stemmed from a muscleless yet not too distant youth. "Wos's this?!" Sniper asks with unintentional repugnance slipping through his teeth with a light whistle, raising an eyebrow at the weightless garment that flutters as if its core fibers were liquefied by his somewhat disgusted glare. "'S a shirt, dumbass, what else would it be?" Scout tisks, Sniper retorting to the young man's scathing tone by curling his hands to imitate the claws of a lion. "What about it, y'want me t'tuck it away just in case little Larry needs an extra change o'clothes?"

"Nah, that ain't for me, Jack—'s for you," Scout explains, wasting no time in stripping the brown vest from his shoulders and undoing the man's red button down just as quickly. "What're you _doin'_?!"

"Just speedin' things along, Jack, we ain't got time to dilly dally, if we want tickets we gotta get there at _least_ an hour early,"

"Listen _t'you_, makin' plans 'nd schedules like you're actually gonna follow a time table," Sniper spits as Lawrence cannot resist running his hands across Sniper's chest, even if it is once. "The Sox ain't a plan, wombat," Scout explains from the corner of his mouth, squinting through the corresponding corner of his eye as he sizes the small shirt against Sniper's front. "Try a_sensation_,"

"Y'want me _t'try_ this postage stamp of a _shirt_ while I'm at it?!" Sniper growls as Scout drags the cotton over his head, tugging harshly at the ends that rest taut against his midriff. "Lawrence I look bloody ridiculous,"

The Australian grimaces at his tanned reflection, the form fitting top hugging every toned and sculpted muscle adorned on his torso and abdomen, the fabric catching against the defined breast it nearly tears its fibers in an attempt to conceal. The "B" and "N" of the "Boston" letterings stand out particularly, the outline of the man's nipples clearly visible, though one could certainly argue this wasn't necessarily a bad thing; as a matter of fact, Scout notes both with an internal _"Hey"_ as well as an isolated hardness in his pants, the man looked downright _sexy_. "Lawrence I'm not wearin' your skin tight clothes from six years ago!"

"Dude, you look…" Scout drools, the sight of his favourite Australian sporting a form fitting token of support for the Red Sox yet another unorthodox myriad of conditions to add to the list of things that turned the Bostonian on. "Like a shameless hooker?! Yeah, sounds about righ!" Sniper growls, the slender slacks, slouch hat, and glasses giving Sniper a less than conservative appearance. "Like I know all about _bases_ with the team, 'lright,"

"Dude, I'd let you swing _my_ fuckin' bat anytime,"

"I already do," Sniper chuckles, turning to better scrutinize his reflection in the mirror. "Oi, even if it's a little snug I s'pose I do look kinda nice," he smiles innocently, though Scout would go so far as to argue that _nice_ was a hell of an understatement. "What's that?! 'Re you poppin' a boner on me?" Sniper laughs, taking Scout into a slight headlock, the young man's queasy smile curling into uncertain 's'es and swirls. "Well I'm sorry, love; you're a right gorgeous thing but I can't say your Bozo the Sox Clown get up really turns me on,"

Scout laughs a little at the man's comment and subsequent chuckle, the image however of pleasing Sniper in the dug out returning just as swiftly as it had settled itself into his brain. "Though maybe if y'wear nothin' but those cute little Sox undies I like I'll mess around with ya t'night…" Sniper whispers, conceding to the Bostonian's unspoken wish that he keeps the shirt on by layering his brown vest overtop it. Scout tugs softly on the waist of his trousers, revealing the red waistband of the aforementioned undergarment, implying the young man was already a step ahead of him. "Now that's a Sox fan I can get behind,"

Scout smirks at the lame pun, turning sharply as the bottom of his door slides against the greying carpet, a blonde head poking through. Luc's blue eyes widen at the sight of Lawrence showing off the Boston themed briefs Sniper claimed to love so much. "You still 'ave zhose zhings?!" Luc laughs at the stony faced young man, whose toughness meant to radiate through the hardened features is negated by the pounds of ridiculous fan gear he dons. "I never zhought I'd see zhe day when you'd be showing zhem to someone as a _turn on_,"

**I MADE AN AUDIO RECORDING OF ME READING THE STORY STARTING FROM HERE. I SUGGEST READING ALONG WITH THE RECORDING. I was on the phone with SPAZIDELIC /27078312**

"How're you, Luc?" Sniper asks loudly, wrapping an arm across Scout's chest, rooting him should the urge to deck the smiling Frenchman grow any more appealing than he already knows Scout finds it to be. "Y'look sweaty or somethin'!"

"Doing yard work can be taxing at times, I'm certain Lawrence knows exactly what I'm talking about…"

"I didn't come in sweatin' and smellin' like _shit_ though," Scout spits. "Now get the fuck outta here, we gotta go,"

"Go _where_?"

"I'm takin' Lawrence to a Sox game,"

"Yeah, where the fuck else would we be goin' dressed like this?!"

"Well, when you were younger you would go to zhe _grocery store_ dressed as such," Luc scoffs, eyeing the young man in his get up once more before clearing his throat.

"You just plannin' on standin' here _reminiscin'_ about my childhood? 'Cause we gotta get outta here if we want tickets,"

"Zhe game does not start for anozher 'our and a 'alf!"

"_The game_ is one of the biggest of the year, Puke, seriously; the Tampa Bay Rays are playin' and if you think that stadium ain't gonna be sold out then you don't know shit about baseball,"

"Funny zhing, I truly don't, 'owever what I _do_ 'ave is a sense of intuition, and zhis time I zhink you will agree wizh me when I say it worked in your favour,"

"Spit it out, Frenchie,"

The rectangular slips in Luc's hand appear to be nothing more in Scout's mind. The evenly cut paper and black print forming clusters of illegible, inky words, Scout can only look back up at his deadpan stepfather with the assumption that the man meant to bullshit him. Sniper observes the exchange silently albeit with interest. Progress halts until Lawrence raises a thick brow, Sniper bending slightly to take a closer look at the stubs. "Oi, those're tickets, love,"

"What?! Gimmie those," Scout mutters, snatching them up and scrutinizing them, his mouth wide with shock and utter disbelief. "Holy _shit_, Puke!" His fingertips slide in stilted strokes along the soft, threatless edges. "How did you get a hold of these, tickets just went on sale today!"

"Your brozhers and I stopped by zhe stadium on zhe way 'ome; it is what took us so long,"

"You serious?"

"I figured it 'ad been a while since you 'ad last been to a game, and zhat you would maybe want to take Jack, show 'im what it is you are so crazy about,"

Scout gapes, the slips moistening in the palms of his slightly dampened hands, head craned down in disbelief at the tickets still. "I can't believe you just, _got_ 'em, Puke,"

"Well it 'elped zhat I did not ask for tickets right be'ind zhe dug out!"

"You didn't get any for no one else, though,"

"Paul is busy, Alex 'ates baseball, and your mozher and I figured you should take your _friend_—she said she 'as been to plenty of games wizh you in zhe past, and just to get tickets for yourself and Jack since you were discussing zhings to show 'im. By zhe way, is zhat Lawrence's old Red Sox shirt, Jack? It is awfully tight!"

"Jack's gotta have _somethin'_,"

"It _compliments_ you,"

"If y'mean makes it _damn near_ impossible t'breathe 'nd it looks _damn near_ obscene, then yeah, it's a compliment 'lright,"

"I'm surprised 'e 'as 'eld onto it zhis long, you 'ave to wonder what Lawrence could possibly want wizh a shirt zhree sizes too small for 'im. Well, I should get back to Julie, she claims to 'ave more _chores_, but you two 'ave, er, _fun_,"

"Yeah, well, thanks I guess," Scout huffs quickly, avoiding Luc's eye as he grabs Sniper's hand, handing him his ticket. The words kill him to speak and Jack knows it. That the words were even spoken at all stuns the two of them, and Sniper can tell by Luc's pursed lips and wide blue eyes that he too found hushed, swiftly uttered words of gratitude to be an unexpected pleasantry from his youngest stepson. "You're welcome, Lawrence. 'Ave a good time and try to _be'ave_, please…"

"Butt out, Frenchie," Scout glares, and Luc shrugs, allowing the bedroom door to slip closed behind him.

-

"I don't understand how y'don't get sick all the way up here, love," Sniper slurs, remarking how funnily different _heights_seemed to be without the focus of sniping to distract him. His hands grip tightly onto the arm rests of the grungy, dark red plastic of the seat, surrounded on all sides by the deafening roar of fellow Sox fans, whose rowdy cheers escalate in deafening wavelengths; about as never ending as one at that. "_NO SUMMER THIS YEAR, IN THE DAYS OF THE WAR, BUT THE RED SOX ARE WINNING…_" nearly the entirety of the crowd, Scout included, belt what Sniper assumes to be song lyrics in a cohesive unison of loyalty to the Red Sox.

"I told ya in the car we'd be pretty high up there, Jack…" Scout rolls his eyes in between lyrics, digging a greedy hand into the miniature, peanut filled burlap sack the Australian had purchased him, shoved haphazardly into the cupholder. "Speakin' of things I told ya, I bet you're glad I made you put on that shirt; I told ya you woulda looked fuckin' stupid comin' in here without some Sox gear,"

Scout had made a perfectly valid point when explaining to Sniper that not a living thing in Boston didn't set aside some sort of attire appropriate for attending a game, like an unspoken dress code. "You know, 'cept _that_ fuckin' asshole," Scout spits at a solitary man sporting a (what Sniper finds to be) particularly inoffensive _Tampa Bay Rays_ shirt at the expense of drawing dirty looks to his person. "Look, he's even shakin', though—'s what he gets, _you betta be scared, you're in Sox country, punk ass!_" Scout shouts at him from across a few rows, his bellowing riding over the still singing crowd for a few seconds before getting lost in a particularly loud note of "_BOSTOOOOOON_".

"Haven't _you_ or—or any other fans ever stopped t'think that maybe it doesn't matter what some other bloke is wearin'?"

"Doesn't matter? _Doesn't matter_?!" Scout gasps incredulously at the slowly nodding Australian. "I oughta throw your ass down there, Snipes; down in the dug out with your precious _Rays_,"

"I never said I _supported_ 'em, just that you all look like you've spotted a child rapist 'nd not just a fan o'the opposin' team!"

"He shoulda known better to come wearin' nothin' with no teams on it, it woulda said the same thing; you can always tell somebody who don't support the Sox if they ain't full blown in Sox stuff, right?! If you can even call them _people_…"

Though only few in the crowd of what Sniper guessed to be about thirty thousand actually dress with as much spirit as Scout seemed to show, the majority of (allegedly _non_) people in the crowd settling with doning at least a cap with the red "B" of Boston Sniper had quickly familiarized himself with to show their pride. One man even appeared to be _shirtless_, Sniper notes, red letters splattered like staining crumbs of dribbled food across his flesh, though illegible due to sitting across the stadium. Jack, who was far from a prude stiff, still found he had trouble seeing the sense or justification in painting oneself.

"Surprised 's not _you_," Sniper extends a curled pinky to point at the thin man who jumps wildly in his seat across from them, clearing his throat and catching his gaze before it focuses on the thirty foot drop separating himself and the green deathbed of the diamond below. "Who?" he asks solemnly, the implication that a bigger Sox fan than his truly resided in the stands beside himself doing much to ignite the potential of raising his temper. Scout wobbles his head back and forth in an attempt to find him or her, straining the tendons in his neck until the tension shoots along his spine in painful pulsations.

"No, over there…"

"What, who, that dude with _Sox_ on his stomach?"

"He looks like he smells like the nacho cheese that kid over there's been screamin' about," Sniper grumbles, shooting the third disgruntled eye in ten minutes at the pimply teenager who walks about the rows, shouting in an attempt to sell the snack foods in a black container he lugs up and down the steps. "Yeah, he looks grody as Hell," Scout comments through another mouthful of unsalted peanuts, the shells fluttering to his feet.

"What?! Like you have any room t'talk in _your_ get up! I'd send you in the same paddy wagon to the bonkers bin as 'im!"

"I don't look like I smell like _cheese_, though,"

"Right, I bet it's takin' all o'ya t'not fling your shirt off 'nd write Ray Culp's name in your own_blood_ on your chest!"

"_Yeah_, you'd like that huh, Jack?! If I just took my shirt off and walked around! I woulda done it too if it didn't turn you on,"

"_Turn me on?!_" Sniper repeats indignantly, Scout nodding in response.

"I can't have you poppin' boners in front of my heroes, Jack, that's just wrong, wombat,"

Sniper rolls his eyes, but says nothing in return.

"Yeah well, I think the whole lot o'ya are absolutely insane,"

"You're just jealous 'cause I'd write Ray's name on it before yours," Scout snaps, Jack grumbling as he decides to neither confirm nor deny Scout's accusation.

"What's so great about 'im anyway? All 'e does is hit balls with bats,"

"All you do is run three miles away and sit on your ass and _shoot_. And he's a pitcher, and 'least Ray is _atheletic_,"

"Y'tryin' t'say I'm not fit?! C'mon now, Lawrence, y'act like I haven't got muscles o'my own!"

"Yeah, but what's hotter, a dude gettin' muscles by _campin'_ in the forest or a dude getting' muscles by becomin' a Bostonian hero by takin' the Sox to the series?"

"Right, he can be Boston's hero all he wants, but I'm _Lawrence's_; would Ray Culp save your arse 'nd let you sleep in his bed?!"

"Prolly,"

"But he'd ditch your sorry self after needin' _t'save_ ya after the five thousandth bloody time!"

"Jack, you've only saved me like, five times, and Ray's pitchin's won us like, a thousand games,"

"Y'wouldn't be here t'see it if I hadn't saved ya those _five times_," Sniper grumbles but Scout ignores him as the players rush onto the field, throwing the crowd showy waves and dazzling smiles, visible even in their distance. "Stand up, Jack, we gotta sing the national anthem," Scout grabs his hand, wrenching him from his seat and pulling him close. "You know it, right?"

"'Course," Sniper grunts, proceeding to mouth the words with utmost conviction, the unintelligible grumble of his Australian accent helping to mask that after ten years, he truly _had_ never bothered to learn it. "'Lright, so now what?"

"So it's the first inning, right? The Rays are gonna bat and the Sox are defending, okay?"

"Right,"

"So you see the white shit on the corners of the diamonds? They gotta get their dudes to run to each one and get back to home plate, that's called a home run,"

"'Kay,"

"The team with the most wins; you see Ray down there? He's pitchin' and bein' a badass in general,"

"Right, but the batter's missin'! I'm sure Luc didn't pay all that money for us t'watch these goons miss for the next three hours!"

"Nah, that's good for us though. Ray's pitchin' so fast dude at bat can't hit it. He misses three times, that's an out,"

"Three strikes you're out, right?"

Sniper's question is drowned out by a loud _BOOO_, the one at bat striking the ball with a powerful swing. Many stand in an attempt to follow the ball's trajectory, Scout included. "_FUCK! NO! STOP IT! SOMEONE CATCH THAT SHIT!_" Scout roars, Sniper clearing his throat and casting an apologetic look at an indignant mother who covers her young son's ears. "_Lawrence…_" Sniper grumbles, wrenching Scout back by the collar of his shirt and whispering in his ear. "There're kiddies around here, now…"

"So the fuck what, daddy's over there on his third beer-COME ON GUYS, CATCH IT!"

The crowd takes a collective sigh and claps wildly as the ball is thrown about a bit just in time to sully the batter's attempt at stealing first plate. The batter walks with his head hung toward the dug out to what Sniper bets is the most awkward applause in the man's life. "That was a lucky catch, no?"

"Luck?! The Sox ain't _lucky_, wombat," Scout grins as within another three minutes yet another Tampa walks another batter. "They're geniuses." Though even eight innings later, Sniper can only say that even geniuses have their matches and equals. After two and a half hours of what Sniper only considered to be marginally interesting at times, (though he couldn't deny like Scout he'd developed a vocal support for the team, clapping and groaning if a well hit ball landed in the mitt of a Tampa Bay Ray) both teams were neck to neck with 5 points each. The sport was certainly valid, he could see why Scout enjoyed it so. Still, even as he asked if all they did was slide in the dirt, to which Scout replied with '_Shut the fuck up, this is the real shit right here, Jack_', he found himself growing more fond of Lawrence's obsession.

"What in the world…?" Sniper mumbles as an epidemic of _arm waving_ swivels about the stadium along with a call of "_whooooo_", his grey eyes watching the cycle travel lazily in a flurry of raised limbs, eyes growing wider as he find the craze nears closer to their side of the stadium. "Aw yeah, the wave, c'mon, Snipes," the young man beams, Sniper however chuckling and shaking his head softly.

"_The wave_," He repeats. "Why,"

"It's just what people do,"

"We 'lready got up for the seventh innin' stretch!"

"Get up again,"

"But this bloody _wave_ 's just nonsense,"

"C'mon, stand up, here it comes,"

"No thanks, I'll pass, love…."

"Get your fuckin' ass up and do the wave, Jack,"

Sniper snarls but obliges, standing with the rest of the section as they stand and cheer, arms stretched enthusiastically. Scout cheers and laughs heavily, flashing Sniper a toothy grin, his bucked incisors poking from his upper lip. The Australian suppresses a smile, but takes a seat and drapes an arm around Scout's shoulder."You're awfully calm for your Sox, they're tied, right?"

"Dude, I ain't gotta _freak_, the Sox come back like it ain't shit," Scout smirks, waving his pennant quickly (the mother having left with her son three innings ago after Scout had called Tampa's pitcher out to be a cunt loudly from the stands).

"C'MON BOYS!" Scout hollers, stumbling back and falling against Sniper as a well hit foul ball flies upward toward their direction at what Sniper guesses to be a good eighty miles per hour. The whole of the section gasps and turns away from the incoming ball, Scout however too caught up in grimacing at the Australian to duck as the ball collides with the side of his head, the young man instantly stunned. "_Bugger me, Lawrence!_" Sniper gasps, taking Scout into his arms and surveying his blurred, swiveling eyes, his slackjawed mouth attempting to respond with gentle puckers of his lips pronouncing weary syllables. "'Re you 'lright, love?!"

Scout nods, his eyes lidded as he grips tightly onto Sniper's front, stumbling even with the Australian's support in lifting him up from the ground. "'S'lright, everyone, give 'em some room…" Jack props him back up in the hard backed chair, patting his cheek affectionately and surveying the point of impact, a bruise swirling to form a nasty, violet splotch on his poor temple. His eyes slowly untangle themselves from their cross eyed disoritentation, the young man flashing a toothy but beguiled grin at the Australian and the few in their row who watch him with the palms of their hands drawn to cover their assuredly agape mouths, raising his fist triumphantly, a small, leather ball constricted proudly within its confines.

A man cheers and slight applause breaks out on behalf of the young man, the noise staggering within his ears and temporarily shocking Scout, who compensates for the sudden vertigo he feels by simply shutting his eyes and bringing his arm to his chest. Sniper catches him as a powerful sway forward would have otherwise sent the Bostonian back to the greyed concrete of the ground, patting his cheek again in an attempt to slap consciousness back into him—despite usually attempting to inflict the opposite on the young man along with his gesture. As sense returns to Lawrence he gives the man a wide eyed jump in return for his efforts, pressing the ball tighter against him possessively from realization.

"No one's gonna take your ball, you've earned it," Sniper whispers, Scout visibly relaxing. "We'll get it signed for ya after the game, love," Scout, having been brought again to dreamy aloofness by the man's statement, attempts to respond with enthusiasm at Sniper's proposal. "I'll even let ya hold it, maybe you'll even be able t'shake Culp's hand, eh?" He rubs Scout's shoulder soothingly, the young man grunting however as what Jack presumes to be a sharp twinge of pain emanates from his right temple, causing Scout to hiss with pain. "Now y'know how it feels," the Australian grunts, producing a cigarette and lighting it calmly. "That bloody Sandman shit; you'll be fine, _we_ were all fine after a while,"

Scout nods slowly, twirling the sweaty ball in his hands as his fingers slowly regain feeling. "Buck up if y'can, the Sox're at bat 'nd I think it's bottom o'the ninth…" Scout instantly slips from his slump, his shirt peeling from the back of the red chair as he lethargically hoists himself so that he can see the Sox rush to formation, Lawrence calling at Ray Culp excitedly from his chair, the syllables slurred but decipherable all the same. "We can do it, Jack, we can do it—COME THE FUCK ON!" Scout's slurred shouts echo down to the diamond, a decently struck ball arcing perfectly into the mitt of a Tampa catcher, who tosses it about to enough people to prevent the Sox at bat from taking the plate.

"Aw _shit_, come on….."

"Y'look like you're gonna piss yourself, love, y'sure y'don't need a potty break?"

"Shhhhhhh—!"

"_'Lright_, how 'bout I just refresh your little soda," Sniper clears his throat, but the rigid Scout neither listens nor responds or_breathes_ as Sniper takes the plastic cup from the dirtied dimensions of the holder on the arm rest, swiveling the flat backwash of Coca-Cola that swishes sickly in the bottom, the sweet syrup catching in Sniper's nostrils and causing him to gag. "I assume you'll jus' take another one o'the—"

Scout brushes him off with an impatient wave of his hand up and down, head glued to the events of the game transpiring below. He grunts and mumbles darkened words as the man slips in front of him, Scout pushing him out of the way and nearly causing the man to stumble on his own feet as he braves the narrow stairs back to the concessions level. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, the platform below the stadium itself drafty, resting in between two different storeys of seats. Taking a look to the left Sniper notices he is more level to the diamond itself, patrons of the game observing in a somewhat reserved, quiet manner (the mother from earlier and her family now residing in the row of seats Sniper identifies as_J13_), as if the sport and etiquette had somehow shifted magically upon leaving Lawrence's side for a whole three minutes.

_'These 're some nice seats, bet they're right pricey; sure as Hell don't miss out on the action…'_

Julie's words from earlier that day ring reminiscently in the back of his mind, something about Lawrence not being _allowed_ to see the entirety of the action, for he had a tendency to get very, very overexcited or whelmed by the Sox and their plays._'If Larry saw every single move those men made he wouldn't have made it to eighteen years old, he woulda had a heart attack—maybe even two, Jack…'_

"I said what'll ya have, suhr?!" a snarky male voice drenched with the ever familiar Bostonian accent inquires shortly of the day dreaming Sniper, Jack startling as he gives the concessions worker his full attention. "Oi—'ll jus' take a refill if that's 'lright—he had a coca-whatsit…" The employee raises an eyebrow and snatches the cup, but not without glaring at the Australian as if he mistook the man's mumbling, Bushman drawl to be a mockery as opposed to the mere accent the older man had grown accustomed to. Sniper grumbles haughtily, eyebrows raised at the hunched figure who slams the overflowing cup onto the cool grey counter. "Oi, b'fore y'get any sorts o'ideas 'bout spittin' in it or somethin', 's not my drink, so I suggest y'watch how y'handle it—" Sniper snaps, but the tender, who opens his mouth very quickly to retort, falls silent as a collective groan issues from the crowd, players running about in a frenzy about the field, music playing over the intercom as thirty thousand voices begin to chatter at once.

"Hm—somethin' musta happened…"

"Somethin'?! More like the Sox just got their asses handed to them, pal," the man sneers. "And I ain't gonna be here when the riots break out," he huffs with finality, pulling the metallic shutter on the window quickly as fans of all ages (and all levels of sobriety) don the same repugnant scowl and flood from the stadium.

"Oh no, Lawrence…" Sniper sighs sadly as he turns to look back up at the stairs, taking the cup in hand and hoping that disappointed Sox fans were less inclined to violence upon encountering after the immediate loss of a game. He takes his time, both in an effort to not spill the drink whilst bumping into people leaving the stadium in droves as well as giving the young man some time to get over the shock of the sudden loss.

_'Game was over jus' like that…'_ Sniper muses, and sure enough there sat Scout, rooted to his chair, the only one left in theirs at that, jaw almost unfastening his joints as it threatens to level itself with his feet, it is spread so wide.

"Lawrence?" the Australian croaks from the top of the stairs, Scout however focused on the two teams that stand on the field. "…love?" He approaches the young man with caution, sensitivity, settling himself in the seat next to him easily but with enough weight to his plop to remind Scout that life was, whether he chose to believe it or not, still meant to resume. "Larry I got ya some more soda, gremlin,"

_'Whoa…'_

Sniper's eyes widen as Scout's lip actually _trembles_, the painted, spiritedly bedecked fan of a Scout, though he releases only a shuddering, heavy sigh in response to having heard Sniper at all. "Y'want a drink?"

Scout sighs again before shaking his head no stoically, the young man clearly refusing to cry as he most certainly would have some fifteen or ten or perhaps even _five_ years ago, though resisting the urge to do so now as a man half way to his thirties, as a man who had witness his friends breathe their dying breath in the past. Scout shakes his head, and Jack brings a caring but relatively _awkward_ arm around his shoulder, patting the silent young man on the cheek.

"Cheer up, Lawrence; they'll—_not_ lose next time?" Sniper attempts to actually soothe the Bostonian, but despite the now empty stadium that surrounds them both, Scout acts as if deafened by some sort of unsightly jumble of noise, a dog whistle of a roar perceptible only by the crestfallen Sox fan. After another select few minutes of sulking, Lawrence does manage to hoist himself to his feet, clutching his ball and leading Sniper back to the parking lot silently. Regardless, the younger of the two men seems steadfast on continuing the trend of moody disappointment, his thin, paint chapped lips clenched as if stapled upon their folds, as if the lack of conversation were a protest in the name of Tampa Bay's victory. Sniper sighs as his attempt at consolation only elicits an irritated growl from his best friend, Scout slamming the van's door with an intensity so distinctly unabated the Australian lurches forward with his palms spread in anticipation that the rusted door was to fall from his hinges as he'd long since expected. "Larry, I'm sorry, love!"

Sniper, who now notices his large hand is sticky and coated with dried Coke, spilled from the edge of the unlidded ballpark cup whilst taking the sharp turn onto Scout's onrey street (the unpaved, graveled roads, Sniper feared, only brought him closer to busted tires). He grumbles softly to himself, though nothing resembling any actual words, pretending to shake the hand and pick at the now gooey brown knuckle hair, giving Lawrence a chance to storm off ahead of him. He didn't always have that option, after all. Normally the brunt of Scout's anger was his to take, be it justified or not. He sympathises as he grips onto the cool metal of the sleek, slate tinted banister, the metal sliding underneath his movement bound body with ease. As his foot conquers the last step of a well swept flight of thirty (Julie must have tidied the landing in their absence), he allows himself one final weary sigh before extending the tip of his index finger to poke briefly at the Fitzpatrick buzzer.

Julie pokes her head through the frame, casting Sniper a silent but short lived, wide eyed glance before pulling the splintered front door back wider. Gesturing for the man to step into the now golden yellow living room, Julie laughs a little at what Sniper knows is the same thing he too finds interesting (precisely speaking the illuminated room), though neither actually confirm the Australian's hypothesis with concrete words. Seeing as evening approaches, the woman had flicked on the small, somewhat outdated lamp resting upon the equally fashionably obsolete side table that rests level to the left arm of the shabby maroon couch, exposed now in its worn state in brighter light. In a fit of eerily jarring deja vu Sniper could almost swear the lamp itself stemmed straight from his teenage years in the mid forties (and even back then he found the appliance to be terrible and unfitting). The familiarity of the velvet red lampshade, embellished with lace trim, the brass and marble base gleaming like a recognizable memory from a not too distant time…

It _seemed_ well preserved, but very much out of place considering a whole twenty years had passed since then. Sniper, who nearly trips as his footing catches in a pocket of unevenness in the carpet, waves at Julie's concerned gasp on his behalf. She reddens, taking a split second's time to look around her again, and at once the oddities and imperfections of the household she'd hitherto maintained in private seem to burst from their closeted secrecy and glare in the face of their first guest in nearly a decade. As she had grown so used to bridling the shame associated with the apartment's unkempt state, showcasing it now voluntarily to the practical stranger irked her muchly, as far as Jack could tell. Luc, sitting cross legged on the couch, doesn't even look up from his evening paper let alone make any last minutes fusses about straightening up stacks of disheveled hair styling magazines or brushing dust flakes off coffee tables unlike his cherie. "It was my mother's," Julie coughs, dusting the dark brown base with a light green feather duster, brushing her hands across the richly stained cherry side table. "She gave it to me when I first married their father, Arnold…" she whispers meekly, reddening from irrational though not necessarily unexpected embarrassment.

_'So then it's even older than I thought it was…'_

Jack clears his throat, giving the upholstery a curt and established nod.

"'S nice,"

"It was 1930 when I first got it, and I'll tell ya, you have no idea how many times I've given that thing a look over the years, debatin' on whether or not I wanted to hock it for _food_ to actually feed those boys—it was the depression, though, not a soul in or outta Boston would've had anythin' worth tradin' it for…" Julie sighs, and Jack nods in polite acknowledgement that he listens to her, his eyes widening as she actually picks up a pack of Camel Slims from the coffee table and strikes a match, shaking it in between her fingers once the cigarette in her mouth is adequately lit.

"I 'ave to wonder if Jack truly 'as any interest in 'earing about zhat lamp in any greater detail ozher zhan _it brightens zhe room_," Luc chuckles, batting his eyes at her in mock innocence as she towers over him, smirking at the bemused Frenchman with her hands on her hips, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her made up lips like a stiffened noodle.

"Well with the way Larry just came _stormin' in_ a few minutes ago and bumped all over the place, I'm just lucky I caught it in time before it shattered all over the floor—guess you really don't know what you miss until you don't have it; speakin' of_missin'_, you know how much I would have given up for a pack of these in those days?!" she asks, her voice smooth and even, though a hint of hysteria lies at the end of her question as she holds up the carton, blowing smoke through her narrow nostrils. "I'll tell ya, that damn thing oughta be glad it's still sittin' around—that table too, I remember seein' that old thing in_my_ grandmother's house growin' up, bet it's worth a lot…"

She tisks, giving the varnished top a smoothing over with her soft hand.

"My mother would have had a heart attack if I'd sold it when she was alive anyway, 'specially for somethin' like cigarettes…"

"I thought y'didn't smoke, Miss Julie…" Sniper mumbles, and in a dainty display of ultimate femininity, the woman plucks the white stick and pincers it in between her smooth fingers, the tip of the filter coloured a faded, carnation pink from the smeared lipstick's imprint upon it. "_Eh_, you know, in those days when you're goin' through a divorce and you've got seven little boys and no money in the worst part of Boston—well, let's just say a lot of other mothers livin' on this very street were probably addicted to worse things, if you know what I mean. I'd never let my boys play with those Carruthers kids—their mother was hittin' the bottle harder than, well..." Julie clears her throat, sighing at the radiant gleam of the accursed light and its illumination of the dirtied walls and the once white carpet, questionably sullied over time.

"...The lamp certainly does it's job, even after nearly forty years," she spits, flushing as she takes a damp rag from a small plastic bucket left in the corner, evidence that the woman had been cleaning at some point that day. "I'm sorry you gotta see this, Jack…" the woman snarls at the steadfast dirt flecks, her hand jutting against the bumps of the wall as she attempts to scrub it clean with added pressure from her elbow and wrist.

"'S alright, Miss Julie,_really_, I'm not a king, 'nd honestly I'm here for you all, not t'inspect your flat," he assures her kindly; Luc saying nothing, but the tips of his warm and ever present smile are visible over the slightly lowered edges of the night's paper. "Tho' if I must be honest with ya, 's kinda shockin' t'me how different y'are around Lawrence,"

"Different?" the woman asks, her lips rounding to form a soft "oh" of a face, dropping the rag back into the bucket and raising her ebony brow. "I didn't know I was _different_, did you Luc?"

"I dunno quite how t'explain it; maybe not _different_, but, well, y'certainly would never smoke in front o'Larry,"

"I _used_ to when they were younger, but now? No, I could _never_!"

"I 'onestly do not see what zhe big deal is, it is not as if smoking zhe occasional cigarette in zhe company of your fully grown adult sons will automatically label you a bad mozher,"

"I don't want the kids thinkin' it's okay to smoke 'cause Mommy does it!"

"Julie, Cher, what _kids?!_ I can assure you zhat you 'ave done a fine job of seeing to it your boys stay on zhe right track; zhat said, zhey _are_ grown now, zhe brunt of zhe responsibility is off your shoulders, dear…"

"Yeah but its different with you, it's not so bad for you _men_! A mommy's always a mommy, especially with little grand kiddies; you can't tell me you think it looks good to see me smokin' in front of the babies,"

"_Define good_," Luc sneers suggestively, Scout's mother scoffing and striking her cigarette hand through the air dismissively, a small, wispy chain of smoke making a visual note of its path. "Oh _stop_," she chirrups, giggling lightly behind her bejeweled left hand. "You're too sweet, Lukie-boo,"

"Larry would not say so,"

"You're both ridiculous,"

"Glad at least you acknowledge 'im along wizh myself,"

"You're both crazy and I have half the mind to get ya both institutionalized!"

"Yeah, about Lawrence," Jack begins, deciding against confirming Luc's theory that he had no interest in the apartment décor and simply keeping his relief that the topic voluntarily shifts from thirty eight year old lamps to his heart broken Sox fan. "Forget it, he always gets like that when they lose," she sighs lightly as if she had no other thoughts on the matter, taking a seat on the couch next to the Frenchman and intertwining her long fingers with his.

"_'Lways_?!" the man croaks, Julie nodding slowly.

"Oh yeah—those Sox are his everything, I'll tell ya, but he handles it better now than he did when he was a lot younger—Larry would wail and keep the whole house up until he fell asleep. Boys and their sports, I'll tell ya I don't get 'em—but you know, the others don't really seem to care about 'em like Larry does, it was always him and his father rootin' for 'em and really gettin' excited. I mean, the rest of us rooted for 'em, sure, but we weren't mopin' a week after a loss!"

"'E's simply _dedicated_, fleur,"

"Oh Luc _stop_," Julie attempts to scold, giggling darkly into the palm of her hand.

"Yes, zhey lost five to six," Luc explains gravely, his eyes brushing over the sports' results briskly. "I am surprised 'e did not give you too 'ard of a time in zhe stadium, Jack…"

"No, not at all, was cute seein' 'im so excited, least 'til he sat there for twenty minutes tryin' t'process that they'd lost,"

"Well did you have fun otherwise?" Julie asks sympathetically, Jack nodding.

"I mean, _yeah_, 's a nice sport 'nd I get why he's so crazy about it, but I mean, I don't get the runnin' away 'nd cryin' 'nd paintin' yourself 'nd threatenin' t'beat up supporters o'the visitin' team—where is 'e anyway?"

"Larry? Oh, he's in his room, he always runs in there to get his little pouties out,"

"'Nd his brothers?"

"Alex drove Paul back to the shop, he must have left about an hour ago, though I'm sure he'll be back before dinner, that boy never misses a meal,"

"And yet you still cook for zhem,"

"It's just outta _habit_, no matter how old those boys get they're gonna be my babies. They hate it, but I really can't see them as anythin' else, you know what I mean? Plus,I was harder on 'em growin' up, when money was rough and you were always gone for work. I mean come on, I had to be a bit of a crab every now and then, I was raisin' seven boys and then Larry had his issues. I smoked a _lot_ more then, Jack, I used tones of voices I ain't proud of and I had a paddle they ran from until they were in their twenties. It's still in the closet, you know," she laughs as if recalling careless summers or fruitful picnics, her cheeks round, full, instantly reminding the Australian of her youngest son. "I was harsh on those boys, but ya had to be with seven of 'em and one with issues like Larry; even when I took him to an alienist and got him prescribed on little pills, he _still_gave me trouble. I guess I always try to be sweet around him, he's..."

"Issues?"

"Jack, he's twenty four years old with the emotional restraint of _maybe_ a ten year old," Julie rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she pats Luc on the cheek, resuming her cleaning. "He was diagnosed with a severe behavioural and emotional disorder. The alienist didn't say it was Bi Polar disorder directly, but sometimes I had to wonder if maybe Larry wasn't sufferin' from a minor case of it. Tthe alienist hinted he _may_ have even been, well, I don't wanna use the word _retarded_, just..." she falls silent, letting her hand swivel the rag in light swipes against the wall once more. Luc smirks, and Sniper growels at the man who apparently finds humour in Scout's condition. "...emotionally unaware, he sees what people do to him much, much differently than the way normal people do, it's why he acts the way he does,"

"I—he never told me he had—" Sniper shrugs, sighing and darting his eyes to the stain speckled carpet.

"He doesn't like talkin' about it,"

"I mean he mentioned once that he had t'go see doctors when he was younger, but he acted like it was a waste of time,"

"To _him_, maybe, in the fifteen year old memories he's got wellin' in his brain, but, I mean surely ya noticed _somethin'_, he sure ain't normal,"

"Mnh, I won't say he doesn't strike me as a bit extreme sometimes..."

"I try to be soft around Larry, there's his condition, and him losin' his dad, and then his problems with Luc growin' up—Luc wasn't exactly as mature as he should have been regardin' Lawrence, but a lot of the tension came from Larry regardless," Jack scratches behind his neck, the woman clearly still unaware that the Frenchman had resorted to physicality in the young man's teenage years out of frustration of Scout's defiance and behaviour, though he knew now was no time to enlighten her. Luc blanches as well, remaining firm in his prior decision to maintain his silence. His thin, hueless lips twitch softly the longer the sudden quiet prolongs itself, though collected all the same. "...So then Lawrence was to blame?" Jack asks quietly, Luc clearing his throat and placing his paper on the coffee table, giving the Australian a nod before sauntering casually into the kitchen. "For their problems growin' up?"

"I wouldn't say that, sweetie, it's _never_ the child's fault; adjustin' to a new man as his stepfather was hard for him, even though he was too young to understand that his real father was hurtin' me and his older brothers. I'll give it to Arnold, he really did care for Larry when he was in his life, but I mean, _look_, he's gone nearly twenty years without givin' the poor baby a sign he's even still alive—and I ain't talkin' about money, Jack. Those boys don't love me because of riches, but because I was _there_ to love them, see them grow up, take care of them and be there for them. Bein' a mom ain't just pushin' a baby through yo' birth canal, you're their docta, the teacha, the referee, the financial provider, Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easta Bunny, you're _everythin'_, Jack. If that man had even shown up to take Larry out on the weekends, Hell, I woulda had a lot more respect for him. But forget his father—Arnold—that's easy for us. The point is _Larry_ can't. It's hurt him for _years_, but the thing is Larry doesn't understand that his father hurt him more than anyone else ever has and probably ever will. He talks about him with that same affection he had when he was eight years old, but you can't tell that to a boy like him, you know?"

"No, I—I understand, Miss Julie..."

She shrugs a little, but utters a soft, whimpering sigh to go along with it, and raises her eyebrows briefly before bringing her gaze back to the attentive Australian. "But no matter what, he'll always be my baby; Larry's had it rough and my heart really goes out to him, but he'll be okay,"

Jack nods, the woman looking over her shoulder at the bustling Frenchman, who comes back with a copper tinted glass bottle in his hands, Sniper presuming by the French scrawl on the foil label he intends to savour French imported ale of sorts. "Me and Luc love that boy to death; we'll always be here for Larry,"

Luc nods, but wastes no time in deviating his attention to the television which he turns on, groaning as he is met with white garbles of noisy static on every channel he switches to. "Of course, Lawrence means a lot to me; even if we do not 'ave zhe best relationship," he mumbles, Jack uttering a soft _"aye"_ and hoisting himself from the wall. "I'm gonna go check on Lawrence, make sure he's 'lright," he grumbles, turning his head in the direction of the bedroom.

"Yeah, he could use some cheerin' up," Julie nods, Luc and Jack sharing a brief look before the man nods a final time at the two, his knuckles clapping softly against the light wooden door of the young man's old bedroom, allowing Scout a few seconds' time to either allow or reject the hopeful company that awaits him on the other side.

"Scout?" he calls lightly, turning his head and peering over his shoulder to see the Julie and Luc sandwiched together on the dusty sofa, chatting in hushed voices overtop the low hum of the evening radio one of them must have turned on just seconds ago. Turning the brass knob, the man inches his way into the bedroom slowly, the bottom of the door skidding in a soft _fwoosh_ against the carpet's fibers, the man instantly aware of the unlit state of Scout's room, his vision straining painfully in order to better adjust and distinguish the silhouettes, labeling them viable objects as opposed to leaving them unmarked and ambiguous shadows.

He closes it behind him with a light snap, treading toward the rectangular bed pressed against the wall as if applying pressure to soles of his feet would disrupt the balance of all there was to logically define. He hones and coils his even, soft breath in his chest, though Sniper knows that Scout can sense his presence no matter how the experienced hunter means to conceal it; it is with the same sense of intuition that Sniper knows Lawrence too was in the room. The stronger his aforementioned awareness grows, the all more careless Jack becomes about masking his intentions; he lowers himself softly onto the bed, instantly bringing a silent, weightless, but sensibly affectionate arm around the young man's shoulder, making a literal shot in the dark as he puckers his lips to press softly against Scout's temple, bringing the other arm to cradle the rest of his frame.

"'S alright, love..." Jack whispers in his ear as Lawrence wordlessly nuzzles him, his thin fingers twirling in the neatly combed and dapperly adjusted strands of (currently) invisible hair, their physical being their only indication that the fine hairs exist in moments such as these where his eyes otherwise fail him. His heart plummets as with a soft shake and hiccup the emotion Lawrence intended to stifle with the aid of visual impossibility breaches from his dry, trembling lips, the man giving his shoulder a reassuring rub as his hand brushes across Lawrence's wet face. "What's wrong…?" he asks him sympathetically, Jack's head tucked against his chest in order to better face him, Scout however taking his time before wiping at his running nose with the back of his hand, his teeth clenching onto his lip in order to better control it.

"I just wanted—I wanted to show you what I love, Jack…" Lawrence mumbles, Jack thankful the lack of lighting masks the raised eyebrow he isn't even all so aware he allows to slip upward in order to better express his befuddlement; it certainly was nothing to rush away and _cry_ over. "I just wanted to get you excited too, ya know? I always talk about the Sox, and—" He sniffs again, Jack bringing a hand to dry his face with maudlin, gentle strokes. "I just wanted to show ya why they were so important to me…"

"I don't understand why you're so bothered, love y'did show me, I had a wonderful time with you out there, _really_—c'mon, Lawrence, we—we got _sodas_ 'nd did the—the _wave_," Sniper recalls, quick to remove any traces of (arguably irrational) distaste he may or may not had harboured toward the act itself. "Y'were all dressed up, 'nd y'rooted your heart out; seriously, I didn't see a single person out there with 's much spirit 's you, y'know?"

Jacks sighs and goes to grab his hand, the appendage however already preoccupied and curled around the very same ball that had collided with his head just hours ago, the very same one the team had been unable to sign due to time constraints. "I know they mean the world t'ya, love; we _all_ do. 'S why Luc bought you those tickets, 'nd it's why I took ya. I wanted t'see 'em too, Lawrence, I wanted t'be there with ya, I wanted t'see your baseball 'nd cheer you all on, 'nd I did; but it was nothin' compared t'seein' you happy."

Jack plants more kisses against Scout's tear moistened cheeks, and as his breathing evens out and his body falls closer against him, Sniper notices his arms cannot envelop him any closer, any tighter. "'Sides, doesn't matter if they win or lose, y'know? Point is they gave it their all, they really stuck it out 'til the end, love, 'nd no matter what I know they'll come back around—"

"The last time I went to a game for real was fifteen years ago, with my dad…" Scout interrupts dully, the man gaping both out of the assumption that he is not finished speaking as well as a lack of a worthy response. Regardless Jack allows the quiet seconds that elapse between them to do so without trying to rush the natural allotment of things and allowing Scout to take as long as he needed to complete the rest of his assuredly taxing thought.

"…I know, 'nd it's your first time home in four years, with your mum 'nd brothers, 'n your bed, 's a lot on ya, love…"

"We were so fuckin' pumped, so _excited_, Jack, you just don't understand—we _loved_ the Sox together, it was our thing, you know?"

Jack nods, shuddering slightly as Scout's cool breath fans out over the crook of his neck, his lukewarm skin growing clammy as their closeness causes a sweat to build up between them, the tips of Lawrence's nose and lips brushing against the man's collar bone. It was surreal, the longer this moment between them prolongs itself and the more prevalent the silence void of Scout's chatter. He had seen Scout cry under a variety of circumstances; some from pain, others from laughter, some from easily irritated sinuses the young man often complained about. Frustration had even been a catalyst once of some of the wetter aspects of his emotional spectrum. Sniper was used to _emotions_, and Lawrence was no marvel of an exception to not_possess_ them. However as Jack finds his arms grip onto him, harder now than ever before, their bodies moist as a result of Scout's watering eyes and the cool excretion of sweat that simmers as a result of their intimate proximity, he realizes that never before had he felt so _human_.

"They lost that game; it was the first one I'd been to that they'd lost," he sniffs, and Sniper, who was by all means sympathetic and by all means pitying for Scout and his severe disturbance on behalf of the Soxs' loss, still finds it internally baffling that the raw emotion the young man experiences leads them here, to this state, to this moment. Jack gapes as, for a few seconds, he tries to mold words to fit the soft shapes and formations of his thin lips, settling instead with grazing more caring hands across Scout's body.

"…and a week later he left,"

"…I'm sorry, Lawrence," he whispers, giving him a firm hug. "I'm sorry y'have that memory,"

Another sniff escapes his person, and a soft _awww_ escapes Jack's in response, the flesh of his skin growing cold and wet as moisture drizzles onto it swiftly, boosted in speed by the curve of Scout's round cheek.

"…you're not gonna leave me too, are you Jack?"

Sniper smiles as Scout refuses to wait for the man's answer before slinging his heavy, leanly muscular arms around his neck, imprisoning him under the desperate, mawkishly tender weight of himself. He feels Scout's fingers brush against the nape of his neck, the young man pressing his face into the Australian's chest, and releasing a soft hum as Jack runs his broad, amative hands to trail up his back, even if the act usually set Scout in a very amorous disposition.

How could he even wonder such a thing, let alone legitimately _fear_ it to the point of tears?!

Sniper takes the young man's wettish cheeks into both his hands in order to better focus on his expression, his eyes now completely settled onto the darkness around him; it was an unsettling view of him, Sniper notes. The usually affable Lawrence with the easy smile and broad laugh instead sat dimmed under the potential threats of abandonment and becoming suddenly _worthless_ in the eyes of the Australian of whom the young Bostonian thought the world. Jack finds himself stumbling on his own words as the shock of Scout's question still wears off, the older man confused and almost nearly _insulted_ he had to ask the man at all with a legitimate worry of his fears coming true; of all the people in the world to ask, the very one who would remain by his side no matter what.

"Never."

-

Sniper leans forward and his mouth parts as he yet again attempts to warn the young man that the light blue, plastic batter's helm threatens to slip from atop his head. The protective cap settles with deceiving wobbles, or at least from the Australian's angle. This time, as Scout bends his frame and brings the bat back to nearly smack his own ear, Sniper doesn't even bother with either the beginnings of a shrill warning or a whole one outright; even as he takes a powerful swing and his steel bat collides yet again with a quickly flying ball the batting cage throws at him, the helm stays rooted to him like luck.

He hadn't missed a beat or a swing; every single ball the automated pitcher had thrown at Lawrence, the Bostonian had hit with the precision of a veteran. Even better for the one man Australian audience, who sat rigid with anticipation of having to dodge a wonky one in the event Scout should miss, though history was doing much to prove the notion had little chance to become anything more than unlikelihood. A final ball escapes the metallic chute with a deep and hollow _pwoomf_ and Scout too meets it, centered and honed, the machinery whirring and cooling down as he snatches the helmet and tucks it under his arm, taking a seat next to Jack and a swig of the water he'd brought along. "You're a right pro if one were t'go jus' off o'lookin' at ya," Sniper comments pleasantly, swearing the young man could flush from the compliment, despite the soft heaving of his chest and his sweating brow, suggesting the reddish hue of his cheeks stems instead from over exertion. "You've got a serious swing,"

Scout beams, half the contents of the bottle pouring past his lips and drizzling instead into the young man's already soaked shirt, Lawrence gasping and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks." He flashes Sniper his toothy smile again, swiping a rosy palm through his drenched hair and fanning himself fruitlessly. "I don't usually have streaks that good; prolly just luck, wombat,"

"Hmph, 's not somethin' I'd usually expect ya t'admit,"

"Yeah well, it ain't like I'd fool anybody sayin' I was a pro,"

"Don't say that, y'coulda had me fooled—I really think your mum was onto somethin' when she said y'coulda gone t'some real serious places if you'd done somethin' with baseball,"

"Nah, she doesn't know what she's talkin' about though—if I wanted to play in the Major Leagues, well, it's really freakin' late now,"

"What? How so?"

"I'm in my prime now, Jack, you ain't gonna see many players in their forties'n fifties just dickin' around on the diamond, 'least not Major Leagues. I mean don't get me wrong, I dreamed about playin' for the Sox my _whole_ childhood—I still do, but now I know it ain't nothin' that—some kiddie dream,"

"Oi now, think positive, love…"

"Nah, really, my chances were blown _years_ ago, Snipes; when I was applyin' to colleges 'n shit when I was younger, no one wasn't tryin' to pay for some poor ass kid to play and study when he hadn't even played for his _high school_,"

"Oh?"

"Yeah—I couldn't play in high school, and if you weren't on no high school team there was no chance in Hell you were gettin' on some varsity—and you weren't gonna get no _scholarships_, neither,"

"Why didn't y'play, you're _phenomenal_! I mean, how did y'even get so good _without_ playin' _somewhere_?!"

"This cage was my home, Jack," Scout sighs, tossing a ball at the man who, although he catches it, does so with a lot less ease than the younger man to whom he tosses it back. "We didn't have the money for me to play on the team, and even if we did, well—Ma said I wouldn't'a been able to handle it 'cause of my—well, fuck it," he snaps, Sniper blanching; Scout had no idea he knew about his disorder, and the older man had no intention of enlightening him otherwise. "She just said it woulda been bad for me; figures, huh? The one thing I loved,"

Sniper frowns, and drags a loving across his cheek before bringing his wrist level to his eye. "'S nearly eleven, love, I'm sure your Mum would 'ppreciate it if I brought y'home now,"

"Yeah," he nods, slinging his bat and actually holding his hand out for Jack to grab and intertwine with his own, Sniper bringing his lips to graze across his cheek as well, the two separating as they begin a lazy saunter back toward the apartment. "You know, I actually met Jackie Robinson,"

"Who?"

"He was the first black man to ever play in the Major Leagues with white dudes,"

"Hmph, 's a real feat for him, 'nd one for you too for meetin' 'im,"

"Dude, I _cried_," Scout smiles as the memory returns to him, a distinct jump henceforth visible in his step. "He told me he knew what it was like, facin' circumstances 'nd shit 'nd tryin' to overcome 'em to follow a dream, right? Fuck, he knows it better than anyone I'll prolly ever meet—dude's a _hero_, Jack; _all_ my heroes are named _Jack_,"

Sniper chuckles, the diminutive summation of racial prejudice Scout had felt content to encompass as "_circumstances_" striking him as humourous. They walk in silence a bit longer, Lawrence smiling as Jack grabs his hand again, brushing his thumb over the younger man's sweaty, calloused fingers. "Y'know he's right? That you can do anythin' y'set your mind to,"

"Yeah," Scout responds lightly, kicking at gravel with the toe of his cleat, sweat glistening under the influence of the streetlights that flicker above them once reaching his street of residency. "But I don't wanna play for the Major Leagues no more; it ain't gonna happen Jack, and I'm glad it never did; if I'd played, I never woulda met you, and a jersey with my name on the back ain't shit when it comes to you. You can't compare baseball to what we got."


	19. Dethroned

Luc presses the pillow harder against his ears, the cotton moist with the sweat trickling down his temples, the fabric of the down cushion's case serving to overheat his flesh. His groan is more of a slight, breathy scoff in actuality, a balanced mingle of disgust and irritation. He turns, meeting the slumbering mass of Julie, the smile on her lips conveying the equilibrium the luxury of sleep bestows upon her. If he should have to be the one of the two to lie awake in such an obscenely early hour of the morning, so be it; if the alternative meant that Julie were to be the one subjected to the late night madness cruely fated of the insomniac, he'd be better at handling it at the very least.

He'd first laid his head to sleep at around ten in the evening, after a savory glass of wine with Julie at the kitchen table. Jack, Alex, and Lawrence had preoccupied themselves with a rather passionate discussion that covered the essentials of what it meant to be a Bostonian. The two elders had entertained the other with the standard small talk that often preempted sleep, the topic of the night having been Lawrence and his charming new friend. Luc had settled with responding only in short, professedly interested "hms" and "huhs" this time around, for the Frenchman had been a little too hung up with how a crackpot Aussie hunter who lived in a piss trailer embodied anything charming would usually demand of its subject to answer properly. The longer they'd spoken the heavier his lids became. And if the grunts of the affirmative sped it along, Luc was willing to pay the price with concurrence of whatever was on her mind.

'Charming indeed,' Luc spits quietly as he rolls on his side and wills himself the deafening of his ears for just this night, God willing.

They'd been at it for three hours.

Scout must've forgotten how thin the walls of his home are in the midst of his absence, the tidbits of knowledge the battlefield had brought with it shoehorning its way into Scout's mind like an intrusive visitor. Moreover, Luc could hardly believe his stepson's childhood bed could even support the weight of the two; the metallic squeaking hints that it too was working hard to keep up with its inhabitants. Just why they felt the need to conduct such business in the apartment when the seclusion of their camper awaited them just down on the street below was well beyond his realm of comprehension.

What made it all worse was that mumbled, stray words of Sniper's seeped in between the moans and yelps of the lusty Scout just on the other side of the wall. The sounds work together to form a sensual, passionate rhythm that would forever haunt Luc's memory. Who knew what sorts of dirty mumblings Sniper was whispering to his lover. Perhaps he was reciting poetry, or talking dirty, maybe he was explaining to him the entirety of Australia's history, or his thoughts on current politics.

Luc shudders, his eyes wide as he presses the pillow against his ears, the young man's cries for 'more' and 'harder staggering themselves in an ecstatic, unbridled crescendo until they lock in his throat, Scout's drawn out moans growing more and more desperate as they approach what Luc hopes is the orgasm they'd been working towards since midnight. Luc had always regarded the Australian's claim that he 'fucked like a stallion' to be self indulgent and highly exaggerated, though the man certainly had the stamina of one.

"Mon Dieu," Luc sighs, easing the pressure his hands command against the pillow with cautious optimism, now only Scout's tired heaves could be heard underneath Sniper's still audible mumblings. They must do much to arouse the younger of the two males, for Scout can be heard moaning as Sniper pauses.

He would most certainly be addressing this come morning.

Luc had no idea whether he should laugh, or shake his head at the sight that graces his eyes when he prods Scout's bedroom door open. Only a small trickle of light seeps in from underneath the doorway, the otherwise completely dark room swallowing all energy that slips its way inside, sound and motion stifled as the two inside still sleep, docile and unmoving. The Frenchman taps the door shut with his heel, treading lightly both because of the dark and caution; he didn't want to wake them, not yet. He scowls at their affectionate spooning, cheeks round with repulsion at the way Scout's arms hook around Sniper's neck, the way his chest serves as a comfortable rest for the young man's head, gentle against the bed of chesthair. Luc, who could never say he had any reason to've seen Sniper without any clothing in the past, had never known he was so fit.

He'd always struck him as being gangly, with untanned skin blanched in emaciated sickness, but the Australian actually possessed a rugged appeal to his person, his arms strong, chest broad and riddled with scars, though they did less to disfigure him and more to crown him as a champion of nature, the whole of him browned by the Bushman's experience. Jack's hand smoothes over the upper body the young man, the rest of their figures thankfully concealed underneath the fabric of the bedspread. Save a few gashes here and there, Scout's body has ultimately remained untouched of permanent injury; hairless, spotless, unblemished, though it was less of a childish purity and more a matter of untainted divinity; he certainly had the figure of an adult male, and he more than likely had hair adorning his, well, Spy didn't quite want to think about how hairy his 'anything' might've been. It was a lean muscularity, like that of the runner he was.

It seemed a shame to Luc that he would have to be the one to soil the display of masculine idealism, but as he snaps on the blinding bedside lamp and wrenches the moistened covers from in between their aroused bodies, Luc can feel his anger and resentment well inside him again, a geyser of unchecked outrage, the two men roaring from startled shock as the towering Frenchman glares down at them both. "Holy shit, Luc, you fuckin' perv!"

Scout wastes not even a second in directing his anger onto its usual target, even within the transition of sleep to instantaneous alertness. Sniper however is content with simply grunting, turning so he lies flat on his back, the palm of his hands shielding his eyes from blinding light and humiliation. "What'n the fuck do you think you're doin' in here, man?!" Scout spits, grabbing hold of the sheet in his stepfather's hands and covering himself and Sniper quickly.

"Peepin' on us, tryin' to catch us naked, fuckin' creep!"

"I imagine zhe whole neighbour'ood could be labeled a bunch of creeps considering we were all treated to zhe specatular show of your passionate endeavours!" Luc hisses, Jack still unresponsive unlike the young man beside him. "Yeah but I don't see the fuckin' Donaldsons in my bedroom checkin' out me and Sniper's dicks,"

"Trust me, Lawrence, I needn't see them! Zhe sounds of your love making last night did plenty to paint zhe picture!" Luc retorts through gritted teeth, Scout smirking, chuckling in prideful egoism. "Oh ho ho shit, you heard us, huh?" Scout smirks, an eyebrow raised smugly at the fuming man. "Did ya hear how loud Snipes was beggin' for me?"

"I 'eard 'im mumbling and you moaning," but Luc stops and wretches a little, hesitant to complete the sexual imagery of his stepson with a simile. "Me moanin'?! You must not've heard shit then, 'cause I sure as Hell wasn't on my back moanin'!"

"Don't lie, Lawrence, you're a screamer if there ever was one, love..." Sniper interjects wearily, hand still over his eyes. "'Ave you two not any idea 'ow loud you were?!" Luc asks in utter shock.

"I am not a screamer, shut up, and you ain't fuckin' Shakespeare, Luc, speak English,"

"Shakespeare spoke English you imbecile,"

"Fine then, don't speak no gay ass English,"

"Do you two not 'ave any idea how intrusive your actions were last night?!"

"Lawrence, just admit t'the man that y'got dominated last night so we can go back to sleep..." Sniper growls.

"Hey, hey fuck you, Jack!" Scout snaps, glaring at Sniper's smirk. "I do not want you to admit zhese zhings, I don't care 'ow 'ard who fucked whom, but razher why you zhought it appropriate to engage in such activites in 'ere in zhe first place! It is your child'ood bedroom! 'Ave you no shame?!"

"Where else are we gonna do it, dude?! On the fuckin' kitchen floor or some shit?! Just 'cause maybe you're into that, nobody wants to hear about your fuckin' kinks,"

"I'm not zhe only one, your mozher quite likes it on zhe kitchen floor as well,"

"Don't you fuckin' say that shit about Ma!"

"Calm down, love," Sniper sighs, sitting up and holding Scout back by his shoulders, the young man hunching them, fists balled and shaking. "Fuckin' nasty; you old people shouldn't even be fuckin' anyway,"

"In a good twenty years your Sniper will also be so old,"

"Oi, leave me outta this, mate," Sniper stretches, Luc groaning and shielding his eyes as Jack's naked frame slips out of bed, reaching for a pair of boxers and cracking his back. "I zhink not, you are just as guilty as 'e! You were zhe one who was," Luc darts his eyes, scratching behind his neck. "Sticking zhings into 'im,"

"I'm jus' goin' t'take a tinkle, 's no need to keep me locked in,"

"This talk is fuckin' creepy as Hell, dude,"

"You're lucky your mozher did not 'ear you!" Luc snaps as the bedroom door closes behind the Australian, Scouts arms folded across his chest, head cast to the side. "There wasn't even shit to hear,"

"Bullshit, your own mozher isn't even zhat loud!"

"Okay, okay! I get it," Scout whispers, cheeks reddening. "Now can we please just drop this?! I don't wanna hear about your grody ass sex life with Ma, I don't wanna talk about mine with Jack,"

"Zhen keep it in zhe camper, please! If you want to keep your sexuality from 'er, I suggest holding off while you're in town,"

"I ain't hidin' shit from nobody," Scout grunts, Luc rolling his eyes and ignoring his interjection. "You might not be so lucky next time, especially if you insist on being such a noisy bottom,"

"Who the Hell said I was on the bottom?!"

"Zhat wasn't Sniper I 'eard yelping in time wizh your squeaky bed, now allow me to change zhe subject; we are leaving for Chris's 'ouse at around one, please do not over sleep or plan for any ozher activities,"

"Listen to you, talkin' to me like I'm still a fuckin' twelve year old,"

-One o clock be ready to go, make sure your Bushman is well groomed and well mannered, I don't need two wild animals in your mozher's new car,"

Luc grunts as Scout forces him against the wall, the front of his shirt locked in Scout's aggressive grip.

"Oi, Lawrence!"

Luc glares down at the young man as Sniper pulls him back gently, Scout struggling to release his biceps from Sniper's steeled restraint. "Alright, zhen it is settled; and please do not forget to be a little less rough, Jack, I enjoy my sleep."

"Just get the fuck out, you prick," Scout hisses, his eyes rooted on Luc, who settles with a smirk before taking his leave, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

The sight of both men in a properly groomed state of presence, Luc must admit, surprises him quite pleasantly. He nods with terse, silent approval as Scout sulks his way into the living room, making a distinct point to avoid all eye contact with his stepfather. The part his mother had fashioned for her son definitely suited his youthful face, dapper all the while. The grey pants and light blue shirt replaced instead with a conservative pair of brown trousers and a dark grey polo, respectively; Luc had no idea a decent outfit even resided within the same plane of existence as his youngest stepson.

He could tell Sniper had to get used to his unmasked profile in the same sense he had to stifle the reflex to do a double take whenever he could see the entirety of the Australian's grey eyes. Luc'd been colleagues with Jack long enough to trust the man with the whole of his identity, the light blonde hair and its distinct ducktail that tapered near the back of his neck, his prominent nose and long mouth, his charming blue eyes. Luc makes an internal joke along the lines of "concealing my handsome face for your own sake", the only proof of its existence being a soft chuckle he emits to himself.

Luc's eyes widen as Sniper brushes past him, the distinct scent of soap actually lingering on the Bushman's flesh, an odor he'd learned to dissociate from Sniper after ten years of jarate jars and repulsive scent of aftershave he'd never seemed to want to change. To see them both generally inoffensive truly was a sight for the aging Frenchman to behold. "Larry honey I don't even wanna know what it is you do with these shoes, but good Lord, they're rank," Julie grimaces as she picks up the cleats her son had left absentmindedly by the couch, sniffing the inside and scrunching her face a split second later.

"Don't gimmie that smile, now take'em to your room before we gotta get the place quarantined," she snaps, throwing her son his shoes, fanning her hand in front of her nose. "I was wondering why zhe apartment suddenly reeked of rotting raccoon," Luc sneers. "He's just kiddin', sweetie, now go do what I told ya," Julie waves for Scout to get going.

"Everyzhing is all about Larry, non?"

"Well it has to be; he's a sensitive boy and his brothers never required the attention like he does,"

"We 'ave been wanting to get married for nearly five years zhis Fall and you won't allow it because of your twenty four year old son. Everyzhing is all about Larry,"

"I always promised my boys I'd never put a man before them, and you know he wouldn't take it very well!"

"But zhey are no longer boys, fleur, Scout is almost a quarter of a century old, and 'e even 'as romantic endeavours of 'is own,"

"Does he, now?" Julie beams, Luc biting down regretfully on his lip.

"Aw, well ain't that just sweet, I wonder why he hasn't told me!"

"It wasn't anyzhing serious," Luc tries to backpedal, eyes darting nervously for any signs of the one in question. "He always used to worry about the girls not findin' him attractive, and now look! I always told him he was a handsome boy and that he probably just needed to get out more! Now look! The ladies can barely contain themselves, did you see the way the Abernathy girl was watchin' him when he took the cans out last night? Oh, Luc, this is great! Was it one of the secretaries?"

"I, I do not know, forget I said anything,"

"Maybe I have more grandchildren on the way!" She squeaks, Luc motioning for her to settle down.

"Now who must we wait for? Alex?" Luc asks quickly, hoping that Julie has already forgotten the news of Scout's romantic success and the nonexistent potential for more grandchildren. "Alex isn't comin', he's out job huntin',"

"Well good for 'im,"

"Larry, did you put your shoes in your closet like I told you to?" She asks quickly of her youngest son, who re-enters the room.

"Yeah, Ma,"

"Alright then, sweetie, are you ready to go?"

Scout nods, his smile wide, Luc turning away so as not to laugh outright at his prominent teeth."Your brother's gonna be so excited to see you, I bet you he'll get a kick outta Jack, too,"

"Don't mind me, Miss Julie, I'll stay outta your way,"

"You ain't in the way, Jack," Scout smiles, patting his friend on the shoulder.

"Heh heh,I ain't very good with kids."

He was perfect with kids, Luc notes. Scout and Sniper had instantly warmed up to Ginny and her infant sister. Luc had prepared a pile of gifts for the eldest of his two granddaughters, the car however unable to transport the entirety of the family with gifts included in one single trip.

"Ginny knows the sound of that car, Luc, she can hear the muffler a mile away! And no one livin' in the Back Bay is drivin' around with a noisy muffler, they got the money to make sure that kinda thing never happens,so that girl hears that car chuggin' along, 'nd she know it has to be either Grandma or Grandpa pullin' up! 'Nd when Grandpa is in the car, she knows it'll be somethin' special!" Julie had explained to him once before, the general tone of animosity she usually harboured when discussing the rather shoddy red Plymouth replaced with a much gentler tone of matriarchal affection. Not that she wasn't thankful she finally had a car to call her own, but the rusted hood and faulty carburetor, loose brakes and aforementioned behemoth of a muffler was often more trouble for the dainty woman than it was worth. Especially considering that it often left her stranded about Boston on her own and hardly any extra cash to call a cab home.

"Paul was alright about fixin' it up the first few times for free, but ever since he started datin' that Rosa he hasn't been able to find time for his own mother, let alone any of his payin' customers, but Rosa can get anything she wants done on her car for free, 'nd he can always find time to get his you-know-what sucked,"

But Luc holds up a hand, growing queasy as the sexual escapades of yet another of his beloved stepchildren is forced into his mind for the second time that day. "But Mom needs a new muffler and the boy acts like he skipped town! That's one way to treat the one who raised ya and wiped your bum, I bet you Larry or Will would never treat me like that, those two were always good to me,"

Luc smirks, but withholds a comment protesting her claim, the Frenchman more than certain that a naked Jack would do just as much to distract Larry as a naked Rosa did Paul. "Even if she 'ears us coming, she will not be expecting gifts," Luc beams, wrapping an arm around Julie's shoulder. "I imagine she is much too distracted by zhe friendly new strangers she can get to play dressup wizh 'er,"

"I zhink she was quite taken wizh Jack," Luc chuckles, laughing at the memory of the blonde girl and the dreamy wideness of her auburn eyes as they surveyed the entirety of what must've been to her and her four years of experience the monstrously tall Australian."Well he is a handsome man. I think it might be the sideburns,"

"I am surprised to 'ear you say someone ozher zhan Lawrence is 'andsome,"

"Oh Larry is a very handsome boy, with those pretty blue eyes of his! I admit his little teeth are a little distracting, Lucien Rousseau, don't you dare laugh!" Julie snaps, Luc's devilish smile nearly bursting around the edges of his lips, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, the man obviously holding back his typical, snorting laughter. "Honestly, you're just as bad as one of the kids,"

"It's not my fault zhe zhought of 'is own teezh makes 'im want to cry wizh twenty four years old!"

"Well now you're just makin' me feel like a bad mom, if I could have afforded braces for him when he was twelve I would have gotten 'em in a heartbeat,"

"Zhere were zhings ozher zhan 'is teezh zhat were stopping 'im from getting laid, fleur,"

"Well I certainly didn't want my little boy goin' around doin' those sorts of things anyway, we were lucky enough that Paul never brought home any babies, Lawrence out there would've been just as bad!"

"Well now zhat Lawrence is old enough to engage in relations you'll see zhat 'is dental issue is stopping him from catching a nice woman's attention,"

"Well why don't you talk to someone on the base about gettin' him some braces? Better late than never, right? And I thought you said there was a girl on base who had her eye on him?!"

"I said nozhing of zhe sort, oh my look, we're here!" Luc sighs quickly taking the keys from the ignition, the car cooling noisily in the well paved driveway of the two storey home. He smiles nervously in retaliation to Julie's death glare, planting a darling smooch on her cheek. "Look, zhere is Ginny, looking out zhe window!" Luc continues to "distract" the woman, waving jovially at the giggling girl who quickly disappears once Grandpa catches sight of her. "'Elp me wizh zhe presents!"

"I wanna know who this girl is!" Julie insists, hoisting a pile of gifts into her arms. All Luc can do is pray silently that she doesn't rush to Scout for the answer to her question. "Hm, I see Marzha still keeps her yard," Luc takes a glance around the perfectly even cut grash, dark green, full and vivid, the small pear tree blossoming in the wake of spring; even its pedals float in synchronization to the ground.

"...perfect."

Luc sneers at the faded garden gnome that sits next to the concrete steps leading up to the door, a small brass sign with the family name "Fitzpatrick" rooted beside it. Christopher, the contender of the title of collegiate champion along with his brother Anthony, seemed so desperate to live the reciprocal of the very life he'd grown up to known. A full, flat yard, a gracious home with perfect, unchipped, light yellow paint, a welcoming beacon to the other neighbours in community as opposed to the cracked, dull red of his childhood home in Springfield. The yard, aligned with pointless knickknacks Luc is inherently surprised some rich little shit hasn't strapped to explosives as means to entertain himself, was better kept than the whole of his parents' living quarters.

Though there was no excuse for staying in the apartment now. It seemed, the more Luc thought about it, rather illogical that they still lived as if they were family of nine for whom a life on welfare seemed to be that of paradise. "D'aw, I can hear her cheerin' already!" Julie smiles, and the more Luc admires the golden castings on the front door, the more in the mood he is into look into better apartments. Julie giggles as the door opens, Sniper standing before them both with an excited Ginny atop his shoulders. "Well look at you, Jack!" she smiles, the little girl leaning forward and slinging her arms around his neck, hooking them so they rest upon his collarbone. "Grandma, Grandpa!" The girl shrieks hysterically, the Australian smiling up at the little girl who bounces excitedly on his shoulders. She stretches her arms out, Julie placing her handful of gifts onto the porch and going to grab her, Sniper grunting as a little black shoe knocks him on the side of the head.

"Where's Uncle Larry, sweetie?" she asks the rounded cheeked little girl, who motions for Luc to take her in his arms."Talking with Daaaddyy!" she sighs, burying her face in Luc's chest as Sniper flashes her a smile, taking Luc's abandoned present pile inside together with Julie. "Chris!" She calls, abandoning Luc and his chit chat with Ginny, though she mustn't go far to find him. "Mom, Mom, Mom, I've told you before to take your shoes off before coming inside!" the young redhead hisses, his fingers curling at the sight of his mother's heeled boots tracking invisible filth in her wake. "Is that really the way you're gonna greet your mother?" Julie smirks, taking her towering son into a hug, Christopher gesturing to a pile of neat shoes near the door nonetheless.

"You're lucky I got your brother to wear his loafers, if he would have worn those cleats of his you'd change your mind about this shoe business," she scolds, wobbling as she slips the shoes off her feet, balancing on her heel. "Did they smell that terrible?"

"Yes," Luc hisses, Chris smirking as Luc's unamused strain doesn't let up. "Oi, 's not that bad, now, I sleep in the camper with the mutant all the time 'nd I don't have t'fumigate it when he takes his socks off,"

"But I'm pretty certain you make 'im take zhem off and leave zhem in zhe bazhroom of zhe camper, non?"

Sniper reddens, the four laughing silently over Scout and his foot odor.

"'S not his fault though, he's a runner, 'course his shoes're gonna smell like musty swiss cheese,"

"Zhe boy needs to find a cure for 'is demented foot issue,"

"Daddy, can I open my presents?!"

"Of course you can, dear, we're just talking, go on ahead,"

Ginny grabs hold of Sniper's hand, leading him into the living room while her other hand grabs the present she presumably deemed most "interesting" with its ribbons and shinny purple wrapping paper. "You didn't have to bring any gifts, Luc," Chris smiles, Luc waving a hand of dismissal. "I figured she would enjoy it,"

"Yeah, but seeing Grandma and Grandpa is more than enough, plenty, you know she loves Lawrence, getting to see him is always very special for her, those two play tag for hours and never get tired, and she's completely taken with Mr. Mundy,"

"He's a real charmer, isn't he?" Julie smiles at Christopher, Luc rolling his eyes. "Yeah, real nice guy, I like him a lot, has some real interesting things to say. Dirty fingernails, though, I've been trying to find a way to drop a hint that he should maybe get them cleaned,"

"Good luck, I try dropping 'ints zhat he should bazhe quite often; does 'e listen?!"

"You mean he doesn't shower?" Christopher whispers behind his hand, alarmed at the very rumour. "He took a shower this mornin', dear, don't give the boy a heart attack," Julie scolds, Luc scoffing and raising his eyebrows haughtily. "I only exaggerate slightly,"

"It's a shame he doesn't live close by, it would be nice to have a babysitter that Ginny didn't intimidate with all her energy, where did you all manage to pick him up from, anyway?"

"Jack is a colleague of mine and Lawrence's best friend, zhey've been close ever since his deployment to Teufort,"

"Yeah, he was telling me about life on the base, about how it's boring. Sounds like Mr. Mundy keeps him sane,"

"Zhey are very close,"

"It is a risky friendship," Luc grumbles quickly, Christopher nodding from understanding. "And where is Larry, now you mention it?" Julie asks contemplatively. "He's upstairs with the baby,"

"Daddy! Look!" Ginny stalks in seconds later, dragging Sniper behind her, a long jumprope in her hand. "Nice, was that one of your presents?"

The little girl nods, turning to face Sniper. "This is a new dress," she bats her eyelashes at the Australian, curtseying and poking at the dark green velvet bows that align its hem. "'S that right? Well it suits ya right nicely,"

"Why don't you go ask Uncle Larry if he wants to play jumprope?"

"Oh Mom, come on, he doesn't wanna do that,"

"Me and Mr. Mundy and Uncle Larry are gonna go bake in the kitchen,"

"Now did you ask them if they wanted to bake?"

"No," the little girl responds simply, playing with her blonde curls. "When will Mommy be back?"

"She's still shopping, dear, she'll be home soon,"

"Well you two get caught up, I'm gonna go talk to Larry and see the baby," Julie nods at Christopher and Luc, Ginny instantly tugging the Australian into the kitchen. "Man, Lawrence has really changed, huh?" Christopher sticks his hands in his pocket, nodding his head delicately as if the motion supported his argumentative question. "Hmph,'ardly," the Frenchman scoffs, rolling his eyes. "He sure was talking like he'd grown a little bit, like life with BLU was really starting to give him perspective! He was telling me a bit about his missions, all the medals he's won,"

"Oh please, I 'ave been waiting for fifteen years for zhe boy to show a bit of growzh and maturity, and 'e knows we are strictly forbidden to disclose any information about zhe missions,"

"Oh, jeeze," Christopher winces. "Well he didn't mention anything specifically, just that he'd earned medals for being a good "Scout","

"'Is deadly skill is jogging," Luc snorts, Christopher folding his arms.

"So he's hired for BLU, huh? 'Nd you and Jack're RED; does Ma know?

"I'm certain she knows in some form of consciousness, but zhe knowledge disturbs 'er so deeply zhat she tends to oppress it until she forgets. I'd never 'urt 'im, zough - at least not lezhally! I 'ave a job to do, and I can only exempt 'im from so much of what zhe description calls for. Zhat does not stop 'im from being anyzhing short of an ungrateful brat,"

"Now I know you two have your issues, but I don't think you're being very fair,he used to not even be able to stand in the same room as you,"

"Zhe most I can say is zhat 'e's managed to avoid 'aving one of 'is tantrums 'ere, and even zhen it is only a matter of time, non?"

"Well, Ginny's the only one allowed to have a tantrum and get away with it, that's just her age,"

"No wonder 'er and Lawrence click so well,"

"Can you say one good thing about Lawrence? One thing,"

"Hmph,'e treats you all and 'is mozher very well,'e is loyal to 'is family,it is a trait rarely found in 'umanity today,"

"He was more of a dad to me than Dad was growin' up! You and Alex. Shame Larry doesn't realize what you did for us, Luc,"

"Hey, Lawrence," Luc responds animatedly, both men jumping as the door to the kitchen opens violently, the topic of interest standing in a fuming mass of pending aggravation, fists balled at his hips. "You!" Scout points at the Frenchman, who simply raises an eyebrow. "We are talking, Lawrence,"

"Yeah, well, I need to talk to you!" Scout snaps, Christopher giving his brother a nervous look.

"Is everything alright, Larry?"

"Dude's a fuckin' dick, but yeah, everything's just peachy," he snaps, Christopher and Luc sharing a glance. "It would seem I 'ave earned a real talking to zhis time, I wonder what I did,"

"Well, go ahead, I should probably check on Mr. Mundy and Ginny anyway, I fear your friend maybe getting a homemade haircut, Larry. The sideburns may be in jeopardy if I don't get upstairs quickly enough."

Luc follows his stepson into the dining room, but not before sighing disinterestedly, checking his watch as he rests his hip against the darkly stained oak table that sits in the middle of the vast room. "What?!"

"Don't you fuckin' what me, you know exactly what" Lawrence snaps, pacing the width of the rectangular dinner table, large enough to seat twelve. "Yes, because clearly I am a master of telepazhy! Zhis is very nice silverware zhey have here, I imagine it is real silver, zhen again your brozher only splurges on zhe best of everyzhing! Even as a child 'e was very 'igh maintenance,"

"I don't give two fuckin' shits about by brother's fuckin' spoon or no damn fork, I wanna know why the fuck Ma came up to me, talkin' about 'who's this girl I've been seein' back at Teufort'!"

"Now Lawrence, I can explain!" Luc begins nervously, admittedly guilty as the words he'd carelessly uttered earlier that morning prove to have yielded the very results he'd prayed against. "Good, 'cause if you couldn't I was gonna get my bat t'maybe give me some fuckin' answers where you couldn't fill in the gaps,"

"Lawrence please, let us discuss this as Gentlemen for once! Forget your bat, use your words, I've been tellin' you zhis since you were nine years old!"

"Why the fuck would you tell Ma I was seein' someone?! Why would you even put that idea in her Goddamn head?!"

"It slipped out, Lawrence, I was actually defending you, she tried to say you could not capture anyone's fancy, and I naturally zhought of Jack, 'e's a 'andsome, kind gentleman!"

"So what?! Let her think whatever the fuck she wants about me, point is now she's wantin' me to bring some girl that doesn't exist to dinner, now she wants grandkids! What am I supposed to fuckin' tell her?"

"Lawrence I cannot apologise enough,"

"Yeah, well, sorry doesn't fuckin' cut it, Luc, either I'm gonna have to bring home a girl or tell her I like a guy,"

"I do not see zhe issue? Tell 'er I 'ave no idea what I'm talking about, zhat I am a jerk and just trying to pull 'er leg! You never seemed to 'ave an issue saying zhis in zhe past,"

"Have you ever had a discussion with that woman? Now that you got the idea of Lawrence with a woman in her head she ain't ever gonna drop it. Now I gotta tell her about Jack!"

"You said earlier you 'ad nozhing to 'ide!"

"Yeah, well, I do, do you have any fuckin' idea what would happen if anyone from the 'Fort ever found out we were together?! We're gonna get discharged and ostracized for bein' fags,"

"Now Lawrence, you know your mozher and I would accept you for who you are!"

"Like I give a shit what you think,"

"Zhen why are you so worried about your mozher finding out about you two? She likes 'im a lot, and your brozhers are all quite charmed by 'im, and I'm pretty sure little Ginny would be very jealous of you if she 'ad any idea 'er new Australian prince were already taken. Your mozher already defends everyzhing else wrong wizh you,"

"So there's somethin' wrong with me for lovin' Jack?"

"No!"

"You better watch and make sure you start sayin' the right shit, 'cause the way you're talkin', you're gonna get your fuckin' teeth knocked out,"

"I will 'ave you know zhat zhose little girls would be most displeased wizh you for knocking my fucking teezh out,completely forget you are taking away from zhe time zhey 'ave to spend time wizh zheir grandfazher,"

"They ain't even your real grandkids,"

"I love zhem more zhan zheir real grandfazher ever would,"

"Don't you dare fuckin' start on my dad, Luc!" Scout roars, though he swallows his next thought, for Sniper enters in through the kitchen, both pairs of eyes widening as the man sports very pink cheeks, lipstick smeared messily across his lips and chin. "You look...lovely," Luc croaks, using the opportunity of the dolled up Jack to turn his attention away from his fuming stepson, resting a hand in the pocket of his trousers. "Least she didn't touch zhe sideburns," Sniper sighs from relief, running a wet paper towel across his face, washing off an abundance of the cosmetic from his profile.

"So,'s goin' with you lovely people? I heard Lawrence 'nd though I better check on 'im,"

"Lawrence is pissed as always, I suspect he needs a juice box and a nap,"

"FUCK YOU!"

"Hey, hey, now, love," Sniper sighs, tilting his head and giving Scout a sympathetic look. "What'd the mean old Frenchman do this time?!"

"Would you at least 'ave the courtesy to wait until I leave before 'e begins to tell you 'is over exaggerated bitching?"

"Goodbye, asshole," Scout hisses, glaring the man down until he releases a pompous snort of a laugh, allowing the dining room door to close shut behind him with a light snap.

"Goodness, love, can you two not argue for one day?! Just one day?!" Jack sighs, pocketing the paper towel and giving the young man a look over.

"What the fuck're you gettin' all heated with me for?!"

"'S jus' a little outta place t'be spoutin' words like 'dick' 'nd whatever else in a house where there're little kiddies runnin' around? 'S ain't 2Fort, Lawrence, y'can't bring that sorta 'tude with ya back t'civilian life,"

"I feel like Ginny should know from the beginnin' that Grandpa is a fuckin' dick. 'S the least she deserves"

"What did he do, love?"

"What did he do?! He fuckin' told Ma I was datin' some secretary back at the 'Fort! Now she's gonna be tellin' everyone she knows I've got a "girlfriend", and she's gonna wanna see pictures, invite her to dinner, the whole fuckin' deal,"

"What? Why in the world would he say somethin' like that?! 'S he outta his mind?!"

"He said it 'slipped out', but what the fuck ever, I bet he said it just to be a prick,"

"Oi, least he didn't tell her we were t'gether. It was a misunderstandin', love, 'nd I'm sure Luc'll clear it up with 'er,"

"Right, this is Luc we're talkin' about,"

"I really doubt the man's out t'get ya all the time, he's prolly growin' too old for that sort o'silliness,"

"What the fuck're you tryin' to say here, Jack, if you ain't just as pissed as I am you must not understand what's goin' on,"

Sniper rolls his eyes, clearly at a loss for words. Arguing with Scout was worse than arguing with a wall; the walls, he snaps mentally, at least had the courtesy to not warp his own words against him.

"Look, all I'm sayin' is that. Y're makin' a mountain outta a molehill. Maybe you're not givin' 'im credit here,"

"Giving him credit? Seriously, Jack?!"

"At least he didn't tell your Mum we we're fuckin' 'nd kissin' in that you're a giant queer! Y'still haven't had t'deal with that part of a Son-Mum relationship!" Jack spits bitterly.

"At least," Scout rolls his eyes.

"I just think you're startin' to find shit at this point, love. Your brothers don't seem t'have any issues with him, maybe you jus' need t'calm down and really look at the situation with a step back,"

"'cause most of 'em moved out before they had to put up with his shit!"

"'Nd, I mean,how d'you know he wasn't payin' child support?! Were you keepin' track o'the finances at twelve years old?!"

"Well,naw, but,why the fuck were we livin' like that if Luc was supposedly supportin' us like you say he was?!"

"Imagine living in a nine person household on the money you're wranglin' in love,"

"Of course you fuckin' defend him!"

"I'm not defendin' him, Lawrence, 'nd you know I'll always be on your side no matter what, but y'have t'admit that maybe you're not lookin' at the bigger picture,"

"Like you are,"

"Oi, this is a fifteen year old argument, 'nd I'm not about t'throw myself in the middle of it. But he's been tryin' t'make amends with ya since you joined BLU, the danger you're in tears him t'absolute shreds,"

"Obviously you are jumpin' into this, tellin' me to look at the bigger picture,"

"Look, all I'm sayin' is that I heard his perspective 'nd,"

"'Course you were fuckin' talkin' about it behind my back, 'cause he can never say shit to my fuckin' face, makin' amends my ass, how 'bout he starts with bringin' my fuckin' father back!"

"I know you're hurt about your Dad, Lawrence, 'nd you have every right t'be! But I'm still just sayin' that you're both adults 'nd need to handle this objectively like you're the grown men y'are,"

"Look, I've fuckin' handled it already, Jack,"

"'Nd this is what makes me hesitant t'say you're handlin' this maturely in any way, mate,"

"Says the fuckin' dude who won't even call home, don't tell me shit about how I'm supposed to be handlin' my problems with my family when you're on the other fuckin' side of the world 'cause you've been tryin' to avoid your own fucked up folks for twenty years!"

"There's only so much handlin' I could do when my own Dad refused t'let me on my own porch, a loaded shotgun aimed at my face," Sniper snaps darkly, Scout's face still stink sour, though he has no words of his own.

"This wasn't a jab at my beaver teeth or sweaty cleat rash, mate, this was a loaded weapon ready t'blow my faggot arse off the face o'the earth if I even said a word,"

"You're a Sniper, you spend all your time fightin' guns with more gun. I don't see what the problem is," Scout sticks out his tongue, shrugging pompously. "I'm not fightin' my father, the one who's raised me, help gave birth t'me 'nd put me in this world t' "fag" it up to begin with, the man who was supposed t'be by my side 'nd love me no matter what; I'm not comin' at 'im with a bloody Sniper rifle, 'nd if you don't understand why not, then it's not Luc with the problem, it's you,"

"At least my Dad didn't fuckin' hate me!"

"Least mine had the courtesy t'tell me he did, he didn't jus' skip town on me! Rip on my Dad all y'want, mate, I'll be the first t'chime in with ya! But at least I have an idea where he is - I'd watch where and who you're swingin' that little fist of yours at, mate. I'll break every one o'them fingers so badly Luc'll be askin' me for tips," Jack warns, side stepping bluntly so as to avoid the red faced Scout's swinging fist, one the young man hurls at him with utmost intensity.

"Don't you ever, ever talk about my father that way again,"

"What're y'gonna do, bonk me t'death? Why, 'cause I'm right?" Sniper scoffs, rolling his eyes and folding his arms. "Y'can't solve all your problems with baseball 'nd punches. 'Nd I guarantee ya it won't work t'bring 'im back, either; grow up, mate,"

Sniper's sneer falters as Scout, whose head hangs at his feet, shows no sign of responding.

"Lawrence?"

The sound of his name works as a trigger, Scout's stuttering breath catching in his throat, though he rushes to stifle himself within the very second his raspy gasp slips from his trembling lips.

'Oops', Sniper sighs internally, scratching behind his neck before inching closer to the young man, the fight drained from him completely in a mere second's shift.

"'Ey, love," he careens Scout's gaze upward so it meets his own, Sniper's awkward excuse of a sympathetic expression could better be described as a painful smirk, lips twist in a half frown, half smile, like an expressively confused snake. Comfort, Sniper reasons, was always his area of shortcoming; was a 'Sorry' or hug even the appropriate thing to say to someone for whom you've confront with the fact that his biological father never truly loved him?

Still, he does that what he feels is right, what he's seen others do in films, others do to others; pulling the young man against him and smoothing a broad hand over his back, another patting him in blunt claps against the cheek, Sniper frowns from uncertainty as the fabric of his shoulder stains from moisture, doused in the now unreserved physical manifestation of Scout's sensibility.

Scout had validity in his accusation; Jack was a star, the leading role in the disheveled performance of hypocrisy. Chastising the Bostonian for his inability to confront his stepfather and feelings was only an offense which boldly painted the word guilty across the Australian's hypothetical track record. Regardless, the older man continues his self conscious sort of consolation, the younger letting anger flow from his eyes as a dam breaks under heavy rain. The tough guise he paraded about Teufort had the others fooled, but Jack was not as weak willed, so gullible in his conviction. Perhaps it is why Lawrence wastes no more time in assuming the unphased facade of the haughty stoic,there was simply nothing left of Sniper to fool.

"Don't cry, love; 's no need for th' tears,"

Yet, Jack sighs, there actually was. The need for them has been present all along in actuality, suppressed in the air tight rage of a growing young man, sealed and locked, like a finely fermented wine bred from a vine poisoned with loathing. The suppression of Scout's emotive being and expression, the misguided hostility compressed within him after fifteen years flow ever still. No boy was supposed to cry; the thought wasn't even to cross the mind of any real man, especially not at the expense of another individual.

"You're jus' human, love..." Sniper responds orally to his contemplative psychoanalysis of the completely overwhelmed young man he holds against him. "You're a right tough little mutant,but y'can't beat your feelin's t'death with a bat like you can everythin' else in life,"

Yet who was he to make such a claim, when he was the very one who'd explained to Scout that 'feelings' were for bludgeoning wives with golf trophies, that professionals had standards. No one could expect to be professional off the battlefield. "Y'know?" he asks Lawrence softly, surprised that when he catches Scout's eyes they are glassy, but not a hint of red or puff develops along his moist eyelids. "Cryin' won't do ya no good, love,'nd neither will yellin' or hittin' Luc,you need to sit him down 'nd talk to 'im,otherwise you're gonna be cryin' the rest of your life, 'nd until you talk to him, you won't even know why..."

"You sound like a fuckin' girl," Scout chuckles, sniffing and running the back of his hand to brush gracelessly against his eyes, only spreading the moisture about his cheeks. "You're the one cryin' like one…" Sniper retorts, relieved when Scout smiles smally, lowering his eyelids and allowing him to settle the matter with a soft, salty kiss.

"Yeah."

A sharp sigh escapes Lawrence's chapped lips, the young man shaking the tears from his eyes, swatting at the air, his emotions circling his head, persistent as flies. "Sorry you had to see that,"

"'Nd why should y'be sorry? You've every right t'cry, mongrel. Problem is you're keepin' it all in, y'know? Keepin' it in 'nd then lettin' it all out at the wrong person, at the wrong time. Y'have every right t'feel the way y'do, but y'need t'let the person who should know the most know that y'do,"

"Over here soundin' like a fuckin' - a fuckin' - I don't even know," Lawrence shakes his head, pulling a nice set of dishes and cutlery from the china cabinet and setting the table accordingly. "Like a what, love. C'mon, let's use our words, okay? I know you've had trouble tryin' to. Your mum told me that you've had some issues since you were a little boy,"

"Whatever." He sighs, and the anger he manages to hide between his pinking lips slink in thin veins across his cheeks like trickling tributaries. "The doctors always made it sound like I was slow, but I ain't, okay?"

"C'mon," Jack whispers, pulling Scout into his arms, holding him affectionately against his warm body. "Let's jus' talk about this." Lawrence shrugs, resting his head against the older man's chest. "I ain't ready to tell her about you,"

"I know, love, anyone can tell from a mile away," Sniper chuckles, Scout closing his eyes as the heaving of the man's broad front sends a comforting vibration to settle his aching mind. "'Nd I don't expect y'to be. 'S a lot t'deal with, I don't blame y'at all. If my own relationship with my folks 's enough of an indicator, there's really no time I'd say one could really get ready,"

"It's all just so fuckin' much on me. I go from jail, to war, to visitin' with a boyfriend. I kinda feel like Ma deserves a break,"

"'S heavy stuff, love. 'S why I wouldn't blame y'if you were to -"

"Don't even fuckin' say it, I ain't breakin' up with you,"

Jack chuckles once, taken aback by the young man's steadfast words of forceful protest.

"So? What d'you say we do? Your Mum might bring it up, but I'm sure you and Luc -" Jack's words are quickly droned out by Scout's long winded groan at the mention of the Frenchman, Sniper quick to regain both his breath and his words, "...will do 's much as y'can to either change the subject or let 'er know there's no lady in your life. Doesn't have t'be a huge comin' out ceremony, 'nd y'can drop this dame business altogether,"

"You don't get it though! Ma doesn't just drop shit. She spends years bein' obnoxious and nosy before putting anything down! Now every time we call it's gonna be DO YA GOT A GIRLFRIEND YET?! MY GIRLFRIEND FROM THE PARISH TOTALLY HAS A NIECE WHO HAS A FRIEND - Blah, blah, blah. Luc's set her off, that fuckin' asshole. She's a time bomb, and there ain't no squad in the world that can diffuse her ass,"

"Then when you're ready, tell 'er you've got me," Jack suggests firmly, swallowing rather heavily; he only hopes their relationship has enough momentum promised to it to keep it going so long for Scout to ever reach a point of readiness. "Y'don't think she'll take it badly, do you?"

"Who knows, Jack," Scout sighs, nuzzling the man's neck as the one he addresses massages his head, long fingers twirling his cropped hair in their tips. "I just know I hate Luc right now...more than usual..."

"Forget about 'im for a moment, 'kay?" Jack mumbles. "Jus' stay chill; 's jus' you 'nd me for now. They're chattin' in the livin' room, 'nd dinner prolly won't start 'til your brother's Missus comes home, I reckon. You've got plenty o'time t'jus' calm down, 'nd take it all as it comes,"

"Why can't it just be you and me all the time, wombat,"

"Well, it is for now, eh?" Sniper chuckles, not at all contrary to Scout stretching his arms to wrap around the back of his neck, the Bostonian bringing him into a slow, quiet and deep kiss. "Jus' try t'enjoy it." That Scout does. The darkness of the otherwise uninhabited dining room shrouds their intertwined figures, the arched, grandiose window facing the front lawn covered under the thick cloak of cotton carnation curtains. Still, Jack pulls them out of its sight for good measure; he laughs into the kiss Lawrence maintains despite the three steps sideways, falling into an ever growing sense of lust himself as Scout brings his hands to stroke along the man's chest, longing against the cotton of his button down shirt.

How he knew both wished they were in the van, Jack muses, pulling away from Scout, his flushed face and lips as tender as the hands he holds in his own. "No tears, 'nd no worries." The words only bring their lips together again, Jack falling into an intricately carved dinner chair, unaffected by the weight of Lawrence letting himself sit in his lap. The kiss itself is executed so calmly and delicately, the air is left undisturbed.

Backs turned to both shut doors leading into their dining room turned romantic haven, neither seem at all aware that one of them cracks open quietly; the Frenchman gasps slightly, eyes widening as he catches sight of his stepson and comrade completely lost in the depth of their affection. Somewhat sheepishly, he allows the door to close with just as much subtlety. Stunned for just a second, Luc resumes his otherwise nonplussed, casual sway into the living room, dropping onto the couch next to Lawrence's mother.

"You boys done now?" she snaps, Luc picking up a three day old copy of the newspaper, laughing weightlessly as he whips it open and hides his visage behind its grey width. The outdated headlines appear to phase Luc with the very same calm pleasantry as they had some seventy two hours ago, a small smile causing the blonde hairs above his upper lip to curl in tiny bows.

"We were done ten minutes ago, dear," Luc informs her, tiny smile ragiing everstill behind his inky façade.

"You're both still a couple of brats,"

Luc, who eyes the now smoking woman with wide, skeptical eyes and a slanted, questioning mouth, observes the way she swings an alluringly well sculpted leg to rest atop the thigh of the other. The thin white vine of smoke snakes in veiny roots atop the bedrock of tension between them, the Frenchman scoffing inwardly as he makes mental notes of how many times before the Bostonian woman had chastised him for smoking in her son's immaculate household.

The sitting room, with the mod chintz sofas (a yellow and gaudy floral print that was no doubt a stylistic choice of Mrs. Fitzpatrick), quickly floods with the clean scent of smoldering tobacco, a throwback to Parisian afternoons Luc himself remembers as maskless. Holding her silence, her tasteful red lipstick keeps its even form, mindful not to overstep the biological boundaries of her gentle lips, as if worried it would cross the woman to whom they belonged. The woman's long time fiancé seems to hold no qualms about doing so; with a deliberate look of smarmy sarcasm that threatens to lure her into a fiery tango of a feud with a mere darting of challenging eyes, Luc too produces a cigarette from a case kept in his breast pocket.

"'E's your baby boy," Luc chirrups, blonde hair fluffed as he strikes a pinkening array of fingers through the weightless strands.

"And what the Hell does that mean?" She tests coolly, Bostonian snark augmenting the question dangerously.

"Oh, you know," Spy begins lightly, reclining next to the thin woman, blowing smoke leisurely through his narrow nostrils. "Monkey see..."

"You better think twice before you try to say monkey do!"

"Well..." Luc's guilty song compliments his round, deliberate, tantalizingly playful smile.

"Well what?!"

"Well if now is any indictation -"

"Indication of what?!"

"'E certainly in'erited 'is mozher's drive for debate and stubbornness,"

"Right, well I'll have you know a single Ma ain't gonna take care of seven boys - one o'them bein' special - by rollin' over! You think Christopher came outta my birth canal this home trained?!" Julie rolls her eyes, Luc eyeing the tautening thigh as if the memory of her second eldest son's birth threatens to unhinge the woman's iron uterus.

"Damn right he learned it from me, Lucien Russeau; if that boy got his worst qualities from me then you better believe it's 'cause I ain't gonna back down for nobody!" she explains heatedly, Luc's more refined tongue choosing to withhold choice words his scholarly, non-native English, which would only work to further fuel their verbal fire.

"Monkey see monkey do all you want, sweetie, but tell me how I was supposed to do it all without a goddamn zoo keeper. And at the end of the day, I'm doin' the best I can, Luc, to this god damn day I still am!" The woman's shaking voice and rising nerves strain at the steeled muscles in her riled, feminine, though strikingly tempered face. Like meticulously iron fabric, the wrinkles of age slip away so as to better bring forth her expression of utter exhaustion, like a veteran who falters under the memories of war.

"He's got his problems, Luc, I know it. I've known it for twenty years, and even then this is after seven kids' worth of problems. Pretty soon kid shit muddles together after raisin' seven boys that by time I knew what really was kiddie shit and not Larry actin' up, it was already too late. He's got issues, and I dealt with 'em the best way a shit poor single Ma could on her foreign boyfriend's income. No matter what, I worked through 'em with him, 'cause that's what Mas do. So what if I cursed or spanked their asses when they deserved it, so what if they learned a bad thing or two from their hard headed mother?! At the end of the day, I gotta congratulate myself; I didn't do half bad raisin' 'em," she snaps finally. "You give it a damn try if you think you could do any better..."

The finality in her aside is met with a weary but no less audible sigh, Luc's shoulder heaving as he restrains a quick roll of his blue eyes.

"Never said I could, Cherie..."

"Your comment made it sound like it,"

"My comment?! You're zhe one who opened up zhe comment floodgates by calling us bozh brats!"

"'S 'cause you two are, you're both bickerin' like toddlers over what's probably nothin' while your little grand daughter plays more peacefully than you two have and prolly ever will!"

"Why must you rope me into zhis?!"

"'Cause it's true!" Ma retorts, cigarette smoke blowing away from the source and about the sitting room like anxious rabbits avoiding the leery eyes of man. "I've been tellin' you for fifteen years that I agree, Larry is in the wrong about a lot o'things when it comes to your relationship, but you're the adult here! You can't expect a child that is clinically diagnosed with some fundamental emotional issues to come at losin' his father and another man steppin' in to take his place very easily, Luc! For God's sake, that's hard on a child -!"

"And zhat is just it, Julie!" Luc snaps aggressively, hands curled as if encased in cement, forever expected to maintain the gnarled gesture in which he holds his twisted fingers. "'E is not a child, but a grown man! 'E is twenty four years old, zhis problem is damn near twenty itself, and I don't care 'ow many diagnoses 'e 'as, from 'ow many doctors, at some point it 'as to become Lawrence's responsibility to see to it zhat 'is issues are kept in check!"

Julie says nothing, but instead stares blanky ahead of her, cigarette pincered in her fingers, elbow rested atop her knee. Pensively, she blinks rapidly every twenty or so seconds, Luc rubbing his forehead quietly as it becomes clear that neither wish say another further word in response to the Frenchman's rebuttal for the time being. A rich mahogany grandfather clock chimes languidly about the width of the rectangular sitting room, and the wind chimes that dangle on the perfectly painted edge of the ridged roof echoes a tune, spring clouds gusting their musical message along. Julie watches the golden weights swing like heavy rectangular hands, five tomes of low pitched notes causing the dusted ceramic of the vases to vibrate against the marble coffee table that rests inoffensively before their still feet.

"You're more of a father to that boy than his damn sperm donor," Julie mutters callously, shaking her head as she brings the very same blue eyes her youngest son had inherited to her lover of twenty years. "You're more of a father to all o'them, you know that? Why stick around for me, after all this time, Luc; the Hell is makin' you stay?"

"I love 'im, you know zhis..." Luc begins quietly, hands folded neatly atop his round knees. "I love all of your sons as if zhey were my own - zhey are my own. I love you just as much; zat is not somezhing you should 'ave to question. I can take zhe blame for 'ow I treated 'im growing up; I can furzher claim responsibility for not trying do deal wizh 'is be'aviour zhe way I should 'ave. But at some point, as Lawrence nears zhirty years old, it becomes 'is duty to take care of 'is emotions,"

"Well, listen..." Julie mutters, allowing the man to take the cigarette in her hand and crush it in a glass ash tray against the table. "You two are both at fault. I know you two love each other more than you'd ever admit to each other's faces, I ain't dumb. But the whole deal with the arguin' and bringin' it with you everywhere you go - you either need to settle it out there, in New Mexico," the woman swallows, careful to avoid the term "battlefield". "Or just ignore each other for the rest o'your lives. I wasn't a perfect mother, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you both bring that madness into my son's house," she snaps, Luc now refusing to conceal his eyeroll and stroking her waist affectionately.

"I don't care 'ow authentic 'is wife can manage to decorate zhe 'ouse so as to imitate zhe look of zhe Parisian Renaissance," Luc heaves, eyeing choice artworks that adorn the lilac walls impressively. "Zhe last name Fitzpatrick leaves be'ind a legacy zhat infects more zhan zhe name on zheir mailbox, Cherie."

Julie sneers, though be it one of tempting delight.

"Zhe son of yours most turned off by chaos is secretly zhe one who needs it most,"

"Uhuh, and just where do you get that idea from?"

"Hmph," Luc smiles himself, peering narrowed eyes in between the folds of thick, linen curtains. "You act as if I didn't raise Christopher myself."

Twenty three ticks to a tock was all it took for the golden tome of the grandfather clock to remind Luc that the RED base had one similar to it years ago in the atrium. The middle aged Frenchman chuckles to himself curtly as he observes his reflection, cast along the width of the polished cherry. It isn't until he realizes the angle of the light gives him a long, rather protruding nose, that neither Lawrence nor Jack had emerged from the dining room. Quietly, Luc twists his neck to gander upon the peacefully stationary door, unable to hear even small voices from the other side. "You know, I haven't seen Larry or Jack in a bit,"

This wasn't the first time Luc had ever silently wondered whether or not the woman could read minds. He folds his lips downward, in innocent contemplation. Years of acting allows him to convince her that he had no idea where the two could have been, nor that he had walked in on them in quiet romance some twenty minutes ago. The gesture itself passively nonchalant, Luc pulls her closer to himself, dragging a broad hand across her hip. "They can't be in much trouble, huh? Not after what you guys must deal with out there,"

"Hmm," Luc titters quietly in response.

"Did you see the way that man plays with Genevieve?" her incredulous sigh is followed by a soft fluttering of her delicately made up eyelids. "It's too bad there ain't a base around here, or I'd make you three transfer and have Jack babysit! God knows Chris has been lookin' for a reliable one for months,"

"'E-'e certainly never let on 'e 'ad a zhing for children, in all zhe years I've known 'im," Luc clears his throat, growing more and more wary of how long the conversation appears to want to remain on the Australian before Julie were to attempt to find him herself. "A man like him's certainly the last one to ask, ya know?" Julie adds rather sharply, a thinly plucked eyebrow raised somewhat skeptically. "Still, guess it goes to show ya just how little a person's outside can be held for truth, huh,"

Luc would have laughed raucously were he not certain doing so would incite another short tempered rant from Julie. The man with his often questionable ethics, rough appearance, less than tasteful practices, and drug habits, was still very much the last man he would have pegged as being a suitable baby sitter for his granddaughter. He'd come to know Jack Mundy through cold blooded murder, and when he didn't know the man of eternal swears and sweaty rifle scopes, he coddled a cocaine addiction in his free time.

Regardless, Spy had pitied Jack over the years, empathetic in regards to such a lost, a waste of youth. He really had made a rather drastic change, Luc notes to himself; he'd only recently become aware of the Australian's long since started friendship with Lawrence. Retroactively, however, he cannot help but notice that the man really had managed to turn his life around since knowing the Bostonian. "I'm tellin' ya - nine times outta ten Larry's in his own little world, but I think he did a good job with Jack, hm? He seems sweet. Maybe a little too rough for my style, but it's nice to see someone finally break Larry outta his little shell,"

'If only you 'ad zhe pleasure of 'earing just 'ow passionately 'e enjoys breaking your son's "shell" earlier zhis morning' the Frenchman scoffs inwardly.

"I gave up on Larry findin' friends a long time ago, Luc, you know that," she sighs, blinkning slowly as she peers longingly through the curtains and across the street. "I'm glad to see Larry found one so good he was willin' to drive him all the way over to see us. That's a good friend, alright, a rare one! I hope Larry knows damn well how good Jack must make it for him,"

"Trust me," Luc almost regrets the words as soon as he speaks them allowed. "Zhey are aware of 'ow lucky zhey are to 'ave each ozher."

"Look at your little lips," Jack chuckles quietly into Scout's ear, the young man pressed gently against the dark wall, his arms curled around Sniper's thick neck. Puffed and red, Lawrence feels the blood beat against mouth, raw and tender from the silent and slow half hour's worth of deep kissing he'd shared with the man before him. He feels the tip of Sniper's long nose slip affectionately against his cheek, the flesh growing rosy with glowing warmth. The few inches of space along the wall his back has occupied for what felt like forever are so warm Scout fears, in a brief fit of quiet, illogical worry, that the floral print wallpaper scorches underneath his equally heated back.

"Love you, mongrel."

Scout rests his head atop the broad shoulder of the older man, blinking as his lips fumble a quiet "Love you, Jack," in return. Both smile as they lean in again to share an equally encouraged kiss, Scout smiling into the way their lips slowly pry themselves from their fleshy partners as they pull away once more. Their mouths, perhaps, were just as reluctant to end it as they were themselves. "No matter what, 'kay? 'Lways stay bucked up, love," Jack narrows his eyes, dragging his thumb along the freckles tops of the smiling younger man's cheeks. "I've got y'no matter what."

Scout attempts to slip free from the broad, calloused hands that root at his lean waist. The eyes Lawrence meets (unobstructed by sunglasses now discarded somewhere back at the apartment) track his own with the presumed accuracy the title of Sniper called for. He freezes, eyes widening as the Australian allows the natural grey of his pupils to grow cloudy with a quiet want for the one he holds. Scout himself senses it all, can hear it acutely in his ears, humming with a drone of a live wire.

He was desirable. Lawrence knew full well his youthful features offered a fierce contrast to his prominently sloped jaw, his curvelessness masking no doubt that it was a man whom Sniper cupped in hands growing tighter, bolder as they trail along the small of the Bostonian's back. Whether or not he was able to see it in himself was irrelevant in so far Scout could read the words so plainly in the eyes of Sniper.

When Jack nips at his neck, it is too late; Lawrence melts, and he allows a quiet moan to bob its way out of his dried throat like a beached fish claws onto the only droplets of the shore it has left. The thud of Scout hitting the dining room wall with added force stops them both momentarily. The wall vibrates as if it too were stimulated, and reverberates their own charged affection back at them, their love racing back into their bodies like crackling branches of white hot lighting.

Lawrence's lips are soaking wet when his eyes part, a blood red and teased into paralysis, strings of saliva connecting their tongues like a biological shackle. His fingers lock into Jack's thick hair, the entire width of their chests touching as if perfect fits to the simplest of jigsaws. His eyes are wide when he registers the mortified figure of Chris behind them, and his skin shrivels with shame as the light turned on just seconds ago exposes his emotion before the world.

Curling his head onto the Australian's breast, Lawrence's hands tense around Sniper's neck as his brother croaks abruptly from the shared door to the kitchen.

"Lawrence!"

The young man brings his head up to sit straight atop his long neck, the whole of his hollow throat suffocating under an air heavily weighted. The two split apart quickly, Jack's tanned skin draining of all healthy colour, leaving it a sickly yellow. His small grey eyes dart quickly across Christopher's figure, who tenses, back hunched slightly out of what Sniper assumes is defense. Regardless, Christopher's blue eyes challenge his youngest brother with a piercing, accusatory glare. He huddles against the soft, lilac walls, hands gripped onto the curtains as if choking the fabric would avert his brother back to his business.

"What are you doing to my brother, you sick pervert?!"

Jack, mouth nervously agape, sends an instinctively protective hand to fly onto Scout's shoulder as the man stomps heavily toward them both. A shrill "HUH?!" barks madly from his reddening face, the young man taking a couple steps backward, hiding his own mass behind Sniper's own.

"The Hell is he doing to you, Lawrence-?!"

"N-nah-" Scout chokes, his brother too preoccupied with his contemptuous glare aimed at the Australian taller than them both to start at the sound. "Stop!"

"I said what are you doing to my brother, you sick freak!" he roars, Jack's chest risking a great heave as he swears the motion triggers the older Bostonian's reflex to swing. He awaits a pain that never comes, and instead entertains the silence longer still. Lawrence breathes shortly and quietly through his still swollen lips, and he can feel his fingertips catch in Scout's, clammy with sweat.

"Why are you letting him do this to you, Larry!" the man rounds on his brother quickly, irately, Jack wholly takenaback as the youngest of the Fitzpatricks visibly backs down, shrinking against the wall as Christopher corners him against it.

"The fuck is he doing to you?!"

"He ain't doin' shit to me!" Lawrence snaps, his brow slowly retracting inward, furrowing grooves of anger into his unblemished forehead. "Nothin' I ain't never said I didn't want!"

"So then what, you mean-" Christopher blanches, stumbling over his own anger and casting a look of utter disgust back and forth between them both. "You mean you actually want this faggot touching you like this?!"

Scout resists replying, straightening quickly, muscular biceps clenching tightly as his whole body freezes in tense, silent rage.

"So then that's the deal, huh? You show your face around here, after all this time-" Christopher scoffs, gesturing incredulously at them both. "And you pull this shit?" He laughs disbelievingly, shaking his head. "What else you got, Lawrence? Then again I'm not surprised it's you who turned out to be the cocksucker - there's one in every family, they say -"

"Oi!" Jack starts, narrowing his eyes. "Y'can say whatever the Hell y'want to 'bout me, mate, I heard it all from blokes whose opinions matter twice 's much as yours. Call me the bigges' bloody fairy this side o'the Atlantic, even - but you're sure 's Hell gonna watch what y'say 'bout Larry," Jack warns, his large hand pointed acutely at Christopher's chest. "Y'call him out o'his name again 'nd y'won't have the teeth in your mouth t'say sorry-"

"You bring a faggot into my household, and he has the audacity to threaten me?! What's next, Lawrence! Is he a Jew too-?"

The swing at his jaw did not come from Jack, but from Lawrence himself. Even if it did not connect, the uppercut aimed to unhinge his mouth was enough to silence him, though not enough to rid him of his disgust. The man seemed to dodge his brother's fist more out of fear of contamination as opposed to physical pain.

"'S not worth it, love," Jack mutters quickly, swinging an arm around his shoulders in an effort to keep him close. The Australian may as well have had the verses and back up dances memorized when it came to the "disturbed beyond all reason" scene. It is only for the Bostonian's sake that he feels as phased by Christopher as he does.

Lawrence grimaces at his stoic older brother, who smirks sadly.

"I should have known you were a cock sucker, even coming home from war you're still probably the same soft little duck boy you always were; once a dick goes in your ass there isn't nothin' that can get it out again, huh?!"

It happens quickly: Scout makes yet another swing, interrupted by Chris' violent push of the young man into the china cabinet, which is then met in turn by Jack lunging for the red headed sibling.

The violent brawl that plays out in front of Scout elicits a shocked wail from the young man. Uninterested in the dishware that now lies broken upon the finely stained wooden floor as a result of his earlier stumble, Scout gasps as the fight sends Jack's back slamming harshly against the dining room table. His brother's bleeding nose lurches at his tumbling stomach as well.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PSYCHOPATHS DOIN' IN HERE?!" Julie snaps, rushing into the room, together with Luc. The blue eyes all six of her sons must have inherited linger on the broken china, the door of the cabinet knocked askew. She eyes the bleeding nose of her son, the sweat drenched faced of the other. She gasps at Jack's swollen eye, Luc brushing past her in order to enter the dining room properly.

Luc clears his throat.

Lawrence is finally able to separate Jack and Christopher, the two glaring at each other so fiercely, Scout pulls Sniper close to himself, bringing a maudlin hand to snake atop his shoulder. "Quite an interesting show going on in 'ere, non?" Luc chuckles in an attempt to lessen the tension, sighing however as he catches sight of Larry's arms holding onto the Australian affectionately. "I heard the crash! Now what the Hell kinda circus are you boys pullin' in here?!" Julie snaps again, her hysterical outburst heard by a silent crowd. "I could hear you boys screamin' from the livin' room! Jesus Christ!"

"Invoke him indeed, Mother," Christopher sneers, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "C'mon, Chris," she tutters shortly, and Luc ambles quietly towards the window. "What's goin' on,"

"Your youngest is a cocksucker," Christopher admits flatly, his hands raising slowly, only to clap against his dully against his thighs. "The baby's a faggot,"

"Christopher I don't care what it was Larry did, you know damn well I won't tolerate that kinda speech!"

"If it weren't the truth, maybe I wouldn't have to use such language,"

"Ma…" Lawrence croaks dryly, making to start toward her slowly, choosing to linger as Sniper tugs gingerly on his hand behind him. "Larry,what's goin' on, sweetie,"

"I told you what is going on! Lawrence brought his dirty Australian missus into my household!" the young man's sibling roars, slamming a heavy fist against his lacquered dinner table. "Chris, that's - that's nonsense!" Julie snaps, folding her arms and gesturing wildly to the Frenchman. "Luc, say somethin'!"

"What, Cherie?"

"Anythin'!"

"Well, I," Luc starts, his voice catching in his throat quickly, growing nauseated at the thought of officially outing Lawrence and Jack on their own behalves. "I do not know what it is you want, dear?"

"You wanna know what I want?! YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT THE HELL IT IS I WANT?!" Julie shrieks with such intensity that all four men visibly jump. Watching carefully what the Bostonian woman does with the off white shards of destroyed china, the four choose to wisely hold their silence whilst signs of a rant begin to surface on her lipsticked mouth.

"I wanna know why the Hell I can't just have a normal, NON FREAK OUT DAY WITH MY GODDAMN CHILDREN! I'M TIRED OF IT! I'VE BEEN DEALIN' WITH YOUR TANTRUMS FOR THIRTY FIVE DAMN YEARS!"

"Ma," Scout attempts again, but is instantly swept away under the shrill scream of his mother's words.

"ALL I WANT IS A DAY WHERE I CAN LOOK MY GROWN ASS BOYS IN THE EYE AND SAY 'YEAH, I DIDN'T FAIL AS A MOMMA'! I WANT A GODDAMN DAY WHERE LARRY AIN'T CRYIN' ABOUT SOMETHIN'!"

"Ma,"

"WHERE LUC AIN'T STARTIN' SOME-SOME SORTA SHIT!"

"Ma,"

"WHERE YOU, CHRIS, AIN'T CRINGIN' AT ME, IN MY SECOND HAND DRESS, THINKIN' YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR THE DAMN VAGINA THAT I PUSHED YOU OUTTA TO BEGIN WITH NOW YOUR PASTY ASS MARRIED INTO MONEY!"

"Ma..."

"I WANNA DAY WHERE MY DAMN KIDS ACT LIKE THEY WEREN'T RAISED IN AN IMBRED BARN, WHERE I CAN SHOW MY FACE IN THEIR THIRTY SOMETHIN' YEAR OLD LIVES AND NOT HAVE TO THINK TWICE ABOUT NEEDIN' A DAMN DIAPER BAG!"

"Ma,"

"I WANT A DAY WHERE YOU ALL GROW THE FUCK UP!"

"MA!"

"AFTER ALL THE SHIT I PUT UP WITH, AFTER ALL THE CALLS OF MA I ANSWER - I THINK I DESERVE ONE GODDAMN DAY WHERE EVERYTHING IS JUST OKAY! NO BROKEN THIS, NO TEARS, NO YELLIN', NO BROKEN THAT-" Julie sighs, sighing scathingly, heavily, through her now parched throat, her chest sweating as she fans herself.

"Jesus. And you all wonder why the Hell I spend so damn much on anti wrinkle cream, it's 'cause of you! Because o'all the sacrificin' I do for you, because o'the last thirty five years o'sacrificin'! Is a normal day visitin' my Granddaughter with my lover and two sons too damn much to ask for?! Or have I not earned a request o'my own yet?!"

"Ma, I'm gay," Scout interjects, stoic in both his words and expression.

Luc loosens, thankful that Lawrence was the one to reveal it after all. He shares a brief exchange of glances with Jack, sun kissed skin paper white as he awaits his technical mother in law's verdict on the statement. His adams apple bobs in his long throat, and Lawrence parts his lips slowly as he dares to speak again. Careful to avoid everyone's eye but that of his quiet mother, Scout feels Jack's hand grip his own behind his back.

"You wanna know what's wrong? Well there you go," Scout snaps, somewhat braver now. "I know you're tired Ma, I know it ain't easy. I know here and now ain't the place to come out, or, or complicate things. I know I'm difficult, and I know I ain't perfect. I know I ain't never done shit right, and I know comin' out now ain't gonna make things easier. But that's it; I'm gay, there you go,"

Jack would have laughed out loud were it not totally inappropriate; Luc buries his face so severely in his hands, his fingers dig noticeable grooves into the flesh they claw. It was certainly a steadfast way of presenting the reality before them all, Sniper muses, though one that obviously takes its toll on Scout; he trembles slightly, even under Sniper's touch.

"Larry, the Hell are you goin' on about?"

"He's a faggot mom, I told you already; with him, Jack," Chris spits, gesturing bluntly toward the tallest man in the room. "As if it weren't bad enough, the dude is fuckin' the youngest of us; there are about four of us closer to his own age, but he's gotta target on the youngest like the fuckin' pervert he is-"

"Larry," Jack whispers coldly in response, calming Scout down before the words of his brother can even rile him up properly. Everyone ignoring Chris outright, Julie sputters over her own disbelief.

"I don't understand, Berry Bunny - where did I go wrong with you? I - I don't understand why you ain't found yourself a girl yet, was it something I didn't do as a Mommy? Did I not teach you somethin'?"

"That ain't how shit works, Ma, and I ain't gonna explain it to you neither. Point is, Jack's my man, and ain't nothin' gonna change it. You wanna disown me? Do it now on the same day with all the other drama that way maybe tomorrow you can have some peace,"

"Excuse me? What the Hell kinda person do you think I am, Lawrence Fitzpatrick?! You got some damn nerve, talkin' to your Momma like that!"

"Well there ain't nothin' wrong with me and Jack; he's the only one who treats me like a damn human being," Larry snaps, glaring at Luc.

"Larry that's ridiculous, and if you think I'ma treat you or Jack any differently, then you weren't payin' any damn mind to how I wanted my children to be. I had a feelin' this whole time you and Jack had to be special friends, sweetie - you two weren't really hidin' it..." Ma scoffs, though Luc chuckles lightly behind his pursed lips, knowing personally that the woman would have carried on otherwise oblivious had her son not come out himself.

"And you're just gonna take that, Mom?" Christopher pipes up again, aggressively striking fault with his mother as he glares the short but easily tempered woman in a marvelous display of bravery as well. "Then again it's not a surprise, when you think about it - queer never could get a date -"

"You shut your goddamn Mouth, Christopher!"

"And if you zhink, for even a moment..." Luc begins slowly from his otherwise uninvolved corner. "Zhat your mozher and I would ever side wizh you and call out your brozher in such a way, you are sadly mistaken,"

"Damn right you are; my baby's my baby no matter who he loves; you like men, sweetie? Fine!" Julie snaps somewhat hysterically.

"Neizher your mozher nor myself raised you boys to be 'ateful bigots," Luc responds sternly, flashing his second eldest son a challenging look.

"You ain't too old to get an ass whoopin', neither!"

"And that's it? You accept it so easily? Sick, all of you!" Christopher snarls. "Well I am neither so easily fooled nor impressed as the rest of you. You, you fucking pervert! Don't think you ever have the right to step anywhere near my mother, my house, or my children again -"

"Point the finger at Jack all you want Chris, 's still your ass with the broken nose," Scout sneers. "And if he ain't allowed I ain't comin' near your stupid ass neither-"

"No matter what, Larry, you and Jack are always welcome at home; me and Luc ain't got no problem with you, sweetie; we love you the way you are,"

Lawrence grumbles, eyes fixed on the floor.

"And if your brozher wants to implement such 'ateful tactics, zhen 'e should no 'e 'as no place in your mozher's 'ouse until 'e accepts you for who you are!"

"'Cause I sure as Hell didn't raise you that way!"

"Well fine, but this is my house; they may be allowed in your filthy home where anything goes, Mother, but in my house they have no business here,"

"Right, 'nd we're leavin'," Jack explains calmly, taking Lawrence by the hand and nodding curtly to Julie and Luc. "Ma, pleasure meetin' ya; you're a right fine Mum, 'nd's nice t'see where it is Larry's got such great character; Luc, I'll see y'next weekish, business 's usual, eh? 'Nd you; y'haven't got t'worry 'bout seein' us 'round your swept little Hell hole; feel right bad for your little girl. Oh, 'nd mate, for a man who hates fags 's much 's you, y'sure do decorate with the taste o'one. 'Lright luv, 's hit the road. No use stayin' where we're not wanted." Lawrence glances reproachfully at his mother, who kisses him quickly on the cheeks, allowing Jack to drag him out of the house without another word. Jack, who opts for a silent exit himself, is certain to flip a heavy handed bird to Lawrence's red headed sibling before slamming the door behind them promptly.

"I dunno why you're still sittin here; just drive."

The words barely slip from in between Scout's lips. Sniper lifts his head to face him, taking his attention away from the keys that have warmed and moistened within the few silent minutes he'd settled with twisting them in the palm of his hands. His expression is completely stony, his eyes narrowed, focused on nothing in particular.

Now would be as good a time as any to cry,though whether Scout does not from a will not to or a stunted hurt so powerful that he is beyond tears, he does not know. Jack makes a motion to start the van, chuckling humourlessly within himself as he imagines how stupid he must look, hand level with the ignition with the key wrapped in his fingers, though he sits still as if completely dumbfounded.

"Y'sure y'don't wanna say goodbye a final time? You hardly gave your poor Mum a proper goodbye,"

He knows however that even if the young man answered in the affirmative, seeing her a final time in her hiccupping, hysterical state would be most unwise,it would only set her tears off even further.

Scout settles with a short shake of his head, and Sniper takes it as a final cue to begin their early trek back to the 'Fort.

"I'll call her when we get back,just to make sure she's alright…"

Sniper'd almost forgotten Lawrence was beside him when the young man actually spoke forty five minutes later.

"I'm sorry, love,I,I shoulda never brought ya."

Scout had only warned him going home would result in some sort of clusterfuck of an experience,that his best way with coping with his family was by not coping at all.

"Nah, it ain't your fault, Jack,it ain't at all…"

"I'm sorry that Chris, that he had to,y'know…"

Sniper sighs, the memory of the Bostonian's brother walking into the dining room causing a shiver to run down his spine.

"…find out that way.'

Scout shrugs, lifting his hands as if to say "What can you do?"

"'Nd I never expected him t'take it like that, either,"

"Do you really think he meant that?! When he said I wasn't allowed back in his house again? That we were perverts?"

Sniper sighs. No one says that sort of thing with the intention of it being the pinnacle of humour.

"I dunno, love; I really don't. He might've just been overwhelmed with,well,imagine if you hadn't seen your brother in nearly three years 'nd he drops on ya outta nowhere 'nd is kissin' this random bloke you'd only met two hours prior,he wasn't exactly in the wrong, so to speak,'specially with Ginny runnin' around,it was wrong o'me t'do it in the first place,"

"What, kiss me?"

"It wasn't the time,you were just so down 'nd I didn't know what else t'do,"

"I see what you mean,but that still don't mean he had the right to call us all those things, 'nd yell 'nd say I was to never come near him and his family again,"

"I'll admit he might've maybe taken it a little far with the insults, but again, for all he knew we were about t'make love on his kitchen table,he was completely surprised with the situation,I'm sure he would have reacted differently if you'd told him calmly you were gay, without him just walkin' in on it,"

"Yeah…"

"Give it time, love," Sniper sighs; time was all the two had over the next three days. "'Nd try not to stay so hung up on it; I'm sure things'll work out in the end,your Mum 'nd Luc really fought for us back there, at the very least you'll always have,"

Sniper cuts himself short, for completing the thought of Lawrence 'always having Luc' was bound to open up a whole other can of worms entirely.

"Yeah, I,I really appreciate what they did back there,"

"Your Mum was sad t'see ya go early, but I feel like it might've been for the best,"

Scout nods.

"Like I said, give it time; give your brother a chance for it all t'settle in,your Mum'll prolly be able to talk 'im down. You're a strong little mutant, love,'nd no matter what, you've got me,"

"Hm,yeah,"

"Y'act like I'm not a professional runaway; 'nd there's always room in the camper for another,"

Sniper's expression softens as he manages to fish a tiny hint of a smile from the dregs of Scout's utter shock, bringing a hand from the steering wheel to curl in his hair.

"You don't ever have t'set another foot in Boston,we can stay in here for the rest of our lives."


	20. Cannabullshit

Scout still had yet to speak since they'd crossed the border of Massachusetts some ten hours ago. Sniper had learned long ago that it was best to let the Bostonian be whenever he adopted the thoughtful pucker of his lips, firmly pressing the blood from the naturally rosy flesh, pursed together subconsciously as a result of deep thought pushing its way outward, settling against the inner side. A silent Lawrence was one Sniper typically found he had to adjust to when the quiet Scout made his visits, though the debilitated haze of anger that routinely weighted the conversationless air between them, Sniper observes, is in this particular visit nonexistent.

_That_ to Sniper was more shocking than the silence itself—that an anger directed at him was not the trigger of Scout's contemplative quietness for once.

"Y'alright?"

The question could hardly even be considered one if Scout could barely _hear_ it. Perhaps this is why he won't answer—perhaps his continued stillness is purposeful, as if he had no intention to.

Thus Sniper simply settles with a short "hm?" as an adequate substitute for the reiteration of his inquiry, his thin lips twisting cautiously as he accepts that Scout clearly has no interest in ending his muted streak. The young man lets his eyes fall shut, lidding them as if snoozing off. Jack sighs as Scout's chest rises and falls in sync with his breathing, overall unaware that Sniper silently observes him, lip upturned at the image of the endearing napping position Lawrence always adjusted for himself whenever he dozed off in the van, the curl of his reminiscent of a nesting, sleeping cat.

_'Little gremlin doesn't mean anythin' by it, he prolly can't even hear me past those thoughts o'his he's been messin' with all day,'_

What kind of question was "Y'alright?" to ask someone who'd been through what Scout had _anyway_?! Whose sexuality was prematurely revealed before his already difficult and easily ticked loved ones, the disclosed knowledge resulting in his third oldest brother calling him filthy, unspeakable names and refusing to ever want to be in his company again?

The news had certainly spread to the poor Bostonian's other brothers by now, and Sniper could tell by the turbulent, unspoken anxiety that riddled every posable inch of his Scout that the young man knew it would be a long time before he'd be welcome to set foot in the city of his birth once more.

That he was stuck in the van for a three day car ride back to a military Fort where the struggle to attain his right to live was a daily thing on top of that—_'Y'alright'_, in retrospect, seems more and more tactless the longer Sniper reflects on the question's asking—any other would have done a better job to soothe him, if only temporarily.

So Jack, after his twenty thousandth failed attempt at chatter in a row, backtracks and extends a hand from the steering wheel, allowing it to smooth through Scout's hair affectionately. Did he not know that there was no point in brushing the older man off, remaining solid in his stoic decision to refuse the Australian's words of comfort? Did he not know that Sniper understood and related to him as far as the abandonment from the family on behalf of sexual preference was concerned? Had Scout honestly forgotten that he _hadn't_ been completely abandoned as the Australian had, because Lawrence had _him_, no matter what? Maybe that was simply Sniper's flaw; where others have broken weighted, indignant ties with the loud mouthed hooligan, he stayed around on account of pure, undiluted love for the very same individual.

Then again Sniper wouldn't have felt right if Scout had left Boston with ease, if he'd shrugged it off and continued with the pointless chatter revolving solely around Bonk cans and baseball. As much as the young man liked to convince himself (and others) otherwise, the cocky smirk and haughty sing song to his voice wasn't a natural attachment to his contemptuous character—sometimes there were simply moments where there are no words.

Now being one of those times lacking a means of expression.

He was handling the homophobia of his brother well—no tantrums, no rants, none of the ridiculous passive aggression he typically resorted to when things didn't go his way…

Sniper smiles softly as Scout shifts in his seat, rubbing his eyes and stretching lazily.

"'Ey, love…"

It certainly _sounded_ a lot better than '_Y'alright_'. Though still, as Scout's lips fold up so that only the corners smile just slightly, his previous question is the only one that comes to mind.

"How're ya holdin' up?"

There. That didn't sound as clueless.

Scout shrugs, his face instantly falling back into disappointment as the reality of things settle in alongside with consciousness. Sniper sighs sympathetically, bringing an arm around Scout's shoulder and giving him a slight kiss on the temple.

"I mean, it's whatever," he scoffs, leaning his head against the window.

"I have a feelin' _I'll_ never be goin' back to Boston,"

"Hey, now, love, don't think so negatively; your brother was jus' caught off guard, is all—sure he said some stuff about gay people that didn't quite _sit right_, but I'm sure it was all outta anger 'nd not outta hate—your brothers love you, Lawrence, it would take a lot more for them t'abandon you like that,"

"So I'm supposed to just _wait_ for Chris to _not_ be a homophobe before goin' back?!" Scout asks exasperatedly, barring his teeth before scratching behind his neck.

_'I really am the King o'comfort lines, huh….'_

"Sorry, Jack—that wasn't directed at you…"

"'S'alright, love, I'd say you've earned a lashin' out or two, after today…"

"Yeah well, you shouldn't have to be the one to take it,"

"Well, thank you for acknowledgin' that…"

"I mean, it ain't your fault, we were just sharin' a kiss in the dining room, a quick one—I wasn't expectin' for him to walk in,"

"Yeah well, truth is we shouldn't'a been kissin' in your bro's home in the first place,"

"You were just comfortin' me, it wasn't like we were gonna hump each other,"

"I dunno, love, it turns quite naughty pretty fast with us,"

Sniper wasn't expecting Scout to actually smile at the comment. He does, however, and it only grows larger and toothier as he meets Sniper's grin of his own, Sniper running a hand along his thigh.

"It'll all work out, Lawrence, I promise—you're family, he's not just gonna let you go like that—your Mum'nd Luc were really pushin' for ya, too—those two would always host ya if you ever wanted to go back home…"

"Yeah, but what if Chris does just let me go?"

"Well, you've always got me 'nd the van, she's pretty used t'housin' runaway queers by now…"

The smirk and soft "heh" the man releases as the words reverberate in his mind don't appear to be homourous utterances, Scout observes; how _could_ the man laugh at the fact that his family's intolerance toward his sexuality has literally driven him to the confines of a twenty year old van parked on the outskirts of their only son's _deathbed_, located thousands of miles away on the other side of the world? Not even Sniper was so morbid to laugh at such a fate, Scout ponders—especially not his own.

"How do you do it, Jack?"

"Do what, love?"

"I dunno—live away from home, never talkin' to your parents?"

Jack, whose lips slant thoughtfully at the mention of them, doesn't rush to answer. Instead Scout passes the time the Australian grants himself to formulate a response by watching the man's facial muscles twitch, his long, thin mouth no longer a slant but a crowning frown, his cheeks puckered as if the question of _home_ tasted of rotten, sour lemon.

"Don't you feel like you lost everything?"

Sniper blinks.

"_Well…_" he begins, Scout sinking in his seat, knees against the dashboard, a customary listening position of his.

"I can tell ya that I'm _loads_ happier bein' myself in a 2 foot wide trailer killin' people for a livin' than I ever was when my family had any involvement in my life whatsoever,"

"The tone o'your voice sure don't make it sound like you feel that way, slugger,"

"Then the worst part is I'm completely serious…"

"But you can still miss 'em, though…"

"Listen, Lawrence, I'm bein' completely honest when I say leavin' my family was prolly the best decision I've ever made in my life—'s prolly the _only_ decision I've made, really—livin' in Adelaide was makin' me suicidal, my Father hated me for who he knew I really was, my Mother was disgusted—"

"What about your sister?"

"What about 'er? She never mistreated me, sure, but when you leave your whole family behind, y'end up losin' contact with everyone—'s just life, mongrel,"

Scout looks down at his hands sadly, holding back on questions for now.

_'Well what were you expectin', love? 'S not like I have any good stories t'tell when I think of home'_.

Though despite the matter-of-fact tone in which his inner monologue registers within his conscious, Jack can't help but find himself regretting the moody shortness of his thoughts; simply because _he_ had twenty years of emotional detachment under his wings, the same could not be said of Lawrence. For a young man not quite used to losing one of the most important people in his life to something so melodramatic, the notion that the whole situation may require some time to get used to for Scout was not an absurdity.

"Am I _happy_ that it had t'come down t'that? No, of course not—no child wants t'have t'face the reality that their family holds them for bein' nothin' short of a freak for true—'specially not at nineteen years old, when you're out on your own 'nd y'need 'em most. For years I always hoped 'nd hoped things would change, that my father would grow t'love me regardless of who I am, but that was some wishful thinkin', eh? My Mum didn't do shit—I could have stayed, I could have tried changin' myself, but it only would have made things worse—my Father knew he had a queer for a son, 'nd that's that…he wanted me out of his life? I'm out,"

Scout nods.

"I—"

"No, listen, love," Sniper interrupts. "Jus' 'cause leavin' 'nd runnin' away was what's best for me, that doesn't mean it's what's meant for you—what you have with your Mum 'nd brothers—'nd even _Luc_, no one can take that away from ya—there's no way they're gonna let that bond be broken by somethin' as simple as you snoggin' a bloke they at least _like_—there'll always be room for you in Boston, that I know for sure.

I never had the love t'lose from my family t'begin with, whereas Luc 'nd your Mum 'nd all six o'your brothers would rather die before lose you—that much I know just by spendin' a day 'nd a half with your Mum 'nd only three o'your siblings.

I guess what I mean is, there's always room in the camper for you, Scout, always—don't ever think y'don't have anywhere t'go, if it comes down to it, but the thing is I know it won't. You're not meant to live with me in a _van_, y'got your family, no matter what,"

"But say they don't want me back, would you really be alright with me livin' in here?! With _you_?! Full time?!"

"Well yeah, sure! We've only got two more years on our contracts, we'll pack up ship'nd take the van around, maybe even get 'er back to Aussieland 'nd we'll do a tour of the Bush t'gether,"

"We wouldn't have no money if we ain't workin', though,"

"I got a little saved up, 's not a problem,"

"Can we get a dog—?!"

"What?! Good _Lord_ no—!"

"Cat?!"

"No!"

"A _hamster_—"

"How 'bout a rat? Always wanted a rat named Bauldelaire,"

"'Course we get the pet _you_ want—"

"'S _my_ van! 'Nd you're my little pet, love,"

"Did you just call me a fuckin' _dog_—?!"

"No, pet means _darlin'_ to Australians!"

"Did you just call me _darling_?!"

"'S better than what your brother was callin' ya eleven hours ago!"

"Shove it up your ass, Jack!"

"Chris _wants_ us to, that way we can fulfill his stereotype that all we ever do is have buttsex orgies with every man we see 'nd spread disease and ruin the American standard of families,"

Scout groans.

"Bullshit, I'm not even American, you can go bugger your _standards_…"

"He's always been like that though—well, I mean, when we were growin' up Chris was always kinda the odd one out—even Anthony kinda knew how to thug it up, dude was buildin' rockets, but you still didn't fuck with him, you know? Paul even hustled a little, stole radios outta cars and sold 'em around for cash, but he'd spend that on payin' girls to take their tops off and shit—but Chris? His tastes didn't exactly _match_ with the reality of what was goin' on in Ma's chequebook, right?"

"How much older than you is Chris?"

"Eight years—but we were fuckin' lucky if trips to the thrift store didn't leave us comin' home with tight ass pants and that fuckin' mothball stench—dude always had to get the Lacoste polos while I was wearin' girl sweaters,"

"Hm,"

"Yeah, so—soon as he hit college, started studyin' Law, he thought he was the fuckin' _shit_, but that was the same year I went to jail, so I didn't have to deal with him, thank God,"

"Where'd he go?"

"Boston University, dude balled when Harvard rejected him—he seriously paid the extra tuition money to move twenty minutes away and live on campus, he was so desperate to get outta the _welfare house_, I guess—he was lucky he earned that scholarship otherwise his ass wouldn't'a gone,"

Sniper can tell a bit of bitterness lies in his voice, for Scout too had dreams of going to college, though schools had only given him so much money.

"Law? I figured he musta done somethin' along those lines, livin' in a house like that,"

"Nah, that's all his wife _Martha_, dude failed his Bar Exam like three times—just 'cause he wanted to live like a snob that didn't mean he wasn't a Fitzpatrick at heart—he wanted the life without the effort—'nd Ma didn't have the money to pay no law school off so he could _"pass"_, "

"So what's he doin' then?"

"I dunno, Project Manager or some shit,"

"Of a company?"

"Of bein' a homophobic _dick_—seriously, how are you gonna say I'm a fag 'nd fags are the reason he fears his daughters growin' up in the world 'cause we 'sleaze it up' when he spent the first 18 years of his life eatin' food bank green beans?!"

"Sounds like a problem he's gotta deal with, love,"

"Yeah well, I'm glad he kicked me outta town, I ain't his shrink no way,"

"Don't worry, love, your Mum's not gonna let too much time pass before you're back in Little Ireland…"

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't wanna go back…"

"What?! 'Course you do, don't be ridiculous…"

"No, maybe I actually kinda _wanna_ take the camper and see Australia with ya,"

"Hm, you're sweet," is all Sniper can say—it was much too late to try and convince the young man that spending the rest of his days cramped with a bitter, aging man in his trailer wasn't any way he wanted to spend his life.

"Yeah, well…listen, love, it's already almost midnight 'nd I really think we should call it a night…"

"Yeah…"

"Put this day behind us, no?"

Scout nods, grabbing Sniper's hand, letting his fingers run over the leather of his glove as the man finds a suitable place to park the van for the night.

"There," he sighs, taking the key from the ignition, leaning back against his seat, eyes closed for a good minute as he takes the time to wind down after the day's events. Scout watches him silently, crawling closer against him however, Sniper smiling as Scout takes the man's chin into his hand, kissing along his cheek until eventually reaching Sniper's thin mouth.

"You're all lovin'…" he chuckles, stretching before stepping out of the van, cracking his lower back as he goes to unlock the camper.

"Do you mind if I sit out here a moment? I ain't moved all day, my legs are stiff as Hell,"

"Jus' be careful, love," Sniper warns, tossing the young man his pistol. "If anythin' happens, shout for me,"

"Like I couldn't handle myself,"

"Jus' used t'savin' ya, why deviate from what works?" Sniper smiles, Scout flashing him a small pout of a stare before beckoning the man inside.

-

Scout has decided. A German Shephard named Boston, and Sniper can have Bauldelaire.

It would play out so:

The two would be driving along the single paved road for _miles_, the van's air conditioning busted, the chink of rocks catching in the tires would be the soundtrack to their wayward adventure. The black rims would be further muddled by the orange red dust the treads kick up and extraordinary speeds, glistening against the iron like foxfire. The parched Outback would actually appear to undulate as the heat stagnates without a hint of mercy, and the scorch would be so intense that Sniper drive with no shirt on, sweat trickling in an unknowingly seductive manner down his toned, muscular front - though this particular detail is certainly Lawrence's brainchild.

Sniper would ignore Scout's first call to stop, but by the second or third he'd utter a muffled "wanker" before parking along side the brush to get a better view of what it is scout would frantically point at—and namely a white, fluffy object left in a cardboard box (Scout knew it was cliché but he couldn't be damned, this was _his_ day dream).

Scout, who typically assumed the more passionate and sympathetic role of the two lovers, would insist to bring the conveniently abandoned puppy along with them, whilst Sniper, after a few minutes of protest, decides that it would be cruel to leave the young thing out in the heat alone—Scout gets his way with little effort (as with every day dream of his).

And so they'd have the puppy. Sniper would threaten him with cruel hintings that the man planned to dump it on his family once finally reaching Adelaide, but would succumb to Scout's insistence to keep her (yes, it would be a girl, Scout hums) both because he cannot resist Scout himself, but because he too has grown attached to the animal (though he'd never admit it).

And so the two (or three, more like) would surprise Sniper's family at their ranch, both of his biological parents hysterical at the sight of their son, and Mr. Mundy would beg for his son's forgiveness—

Scout jumps as he swears Sniper mumbles _"wishful thinkin'"_ into his fantasy clogged ear, Scout jumping as the nighttime sounds of the woods bring him out of his thinly conjured dreamworld. He must've only been out for five minutes, but Lawrence decides it's best to not worry Sniper and just turn in for the night.

He never did like the way Sniper never reacted to the sound of the camper door opening.

_'What if I'm the resident woods axe murderer?'_ Scout scoffs—then again the jars of human urine along the coffee table and various rifles and bullet shells littering the entry room of the camper may play a part to deter any potential intruders—Hell, it does much to deter Scout _himself_ from coming in any further, and he was looking to move _in_ with the man and his camper…

"Aw, dude, what the fuck—"

The quickly placed hand that covers his mouth and nose only just barely stop Scout from actually hurling. The concealing of his mouth and nose from the contaminated air still does nothing to protect the inner workings of his respiratory system, the young man gagging at the oily, heavy air, the metallic, earthy fumes heated with a pungent humidity.

"Jack, holy _shit_!" Scout snaps, staggering into the sleeping room tactlessly. "What the fuck smells like hot ass _skunk_?!"

Sniper, who sits up on the mattress, head rolled back completely, eyes closed, shows no sign of having heard Scout nor his heavy footed bumbling about the allegedly skunk scented trailer.

"Jack!" Scout throws his grey cap at the man, the hat bouncing off his chest as if constructed purely from feathered rubber.

"Look at me!" Scout growls, stalking to the bathroom as he realizes he isn't to stem an answer from the Australian, undoing his cleats and leaving them next to the sink (it was the only rule Sniper actually demanded be upheld whilst in the camper—Scout even sniffs his cleat to make sure his _shoes_ weren't the source of the smell).

"_Jack_!" Scout whines, crashing onto the bed and rolling his head into the man's lap. Scout wraps his arms around the man's waist and gives his frame a shake in an attempt to grab his attention, his fingers digging through the thin material of the wife beater, clutching onto the warm, healthy flesh underneath.

Scout groans, folding his arms as Sniper allows himself to open his left eye, the size of his pupil dilating in a sluggish expansion as the yellow light of the bedside lamp hits it.

"Wot?" Sniper croaks, falling prey to a harsh coughing fit, his chest heaving as the rupture expels itself from his lungs.

"Whassamatter with your _voice_, you sound like you've been workin' in a bar for fifty years—and why weren't you answerin' me—and what the fuck is that _smell_—?!"

Scout scrunches his face as Sniper chuckles, puffs of smoke swirling in semi translucent figure eights from the depths of his nostrils, the man's breath weighted with a complimentary scent of coffee and what he can best pinpoint as freshly mown grass.

"Jack…?"

He simply laughs. Both eyes open—squinted, but open—he hones in on Scout's widened ones, auburn cattails crisscrossing their way across Sniper's grey irises, twisting like thin, rust coloured railroad tracks, destination bound to the center of an ocular like the strain of a black hole upon the entirety of space around it.

"What have you been smokin'…?" Scout tisks as Sniper's smile grows an impressive wide, teeth concealed behind his flushed mouth.

"Hm—nothin'," Sniper chuckles, Scout craning his head about in search of an ashtray—eyes darting suspiciously back up to Sniper's as his search yields nothing. Sniper's eyes are still the same narrowed, pleasant and lethargic hazes of unspoken emotion, their motion in following Scout's head about only further proving the man operates on another plane of existence entirely.

"Nothin'," Scout snaps, leaning over the side of mattress and taking an extinguished hand rolled cigarette in between his thumb and forefingers.

"'Ey now, gimmie that—'s not for _kiddies_—cigarettes're terrible— "

"I ain't no kid, 'nd this ain't no _cigarette_, neither," Scout glares, Sniper chuckling softly.

"I don't believe you—where'd you—where'd you even _get_ this stuff, anyway—?!"

"No matter," Sniper grunts. "Well, I s'pose you're gonna wanna end it now, eh? You're takin' the kids 'nd the van, accuse me o'bein' a drug addict—"

"N—nah, but it makes the camper smell like _shit_,"

"So I've heard…"

"I mean, _I_ would never smoke dope—"

"'S good, drug free's the way t'be, love…"

"Ma always told me only _losers_ smoke the stuff, that you lose your memory and get addicted to it, 'nd it makes you steal, and commit crimes, and turns women into hussies!"

"Cute, I bet ya Ma said all that stuff high off her arse—"

"You sayin' my Mom is a drug addict?!"

"I thought you said _'dope'_ doesn't automatically make y'one…"

"Well, I dunno about _you_—"

But Sniper cuts him short by taking his ashtray (among other things) into his hand before hoisting himself off the mattress and sauntering off toward the kitchenette.

"Hey, where're _you_ goin'?" Scout snaps, quick to follow the man—though it doesn't take much effort, for Sniper is slower than usual in his sedated state.

"Outside—'could use the fresh air," he slurs, opening the camper door and leaving it open.

"See? You're already forgettin'—leavin' the door open—"

"I'm airin' it out, love…" Sniper rolls his eyes, Scout plopping down next to the man on the solid but slightly dampened earth, the small flame of his lighter the only one save the streetlights along the highway that sits a ways off—though bright enough to provide the two men with sufficient light.

"Now how come it don't smell like fuckin' skunk 'til you light it?!" Why does it smell like skunk in the first place?!"

"Well, not all of it smells like skunk, love—there're different strains o'marijuana, 'nd each of 'em smell different,"

"'Course you would know…"

"'Course I would…" Sniper chuckles. "Some of it's got a spicy smell—some's sweeter, citrusy, fruity, dirt like, whatever—'ve even smoked some that smelled a bit like burnt cornbread some time ago," he sighs, releasing smoke from his mouth after a solid twenty seconds of holding it in.

"Great, am I gonna start hallucinatin' breathin' in your smoke?!"

"Y'don't get high off second hand smoke, love, let alone _hallucinate_—marijuana isn't even a hallucinogen—good lord, didn't you learn _anythin'_ 'bout drugs in school?!"

"That they're _bad_!"

"Oi, yoi, yoi—ace teacher y'musta had…"

"Miss Landers was a wonderful teacher, dick," Scout pouts.

"I mean, y'smoke cigarettes with me without a problem!"

"Yeah, well—! Well—!"

"'Nd y'smoke one o'these 'nd walk away from it feelin' happy instead o'hackin' your way back to the base 'nd insistin' you'll kill Luc any day now—"

"Yeah, but cigarettes don't alter my _mind_—!"

"Oi now, y'get nicotine rushes, don't ya? Besides, the more you're talkin' the more apparent it is y'don't know a damn thing about the bloody plant,"

"What's there to know? It's bad for you,"

"_McDonald's_ is bad for you, lyin' in court is bad for you—"

"Yeah, so?"

"Look love—forget Miss Landers, 'nd forget the jokes—I've been smokin' for nearly fifteen years, do I seem like a drug abusin' psychopath?"

"Y'know you're almost askin' for it,"

"I know it, but my question still stands, love,"

"I mean—"

"_I mean_, if you're gonna sit there 'nd call me a psychopathic drug abuser, then at least have the nerve t'know a little somethin' about the _'drug'_ I'm usin'—otherwise you're lookin' right dopey thinkin' you trip inhalin' second hand smoke from a joint—no pun intended,"

"Fuck off,"

"I mean, if you're gonna scold me, have a better argument than '_Miss Landers was talkin' out her ass 'nd I gobbled every word she tooted out_',"

"Alright, alright!" Scout scoffs, Sniper smirking, taking another hit of the lightly smoldering joint in his hand.

"Why do you smoke it, anyway?"

Sniper chuckles softly, quickly, turning his content expression to face the interrogator.

"I could tell ya—or I could show ya," Sniper grunts, sitting up and producing his lighter from beside him, flicking the end of the smokable again, rekindling the flame. He inhales deeply, Scout watching as the flame browned paper draws back as the fire hits it.

"'Ere," Sniper coughs, expelling the air soundly through his nostrils, handing the young man the joint in his hand.

"You serious?! You really want me to smoke that?"

"Oi, if anythin', consider it a learnin' experience—you've _killed_ people for God's sake, love, I'm sure you smokin' a little bud is the least o'your Mum's worries,"

"Hey, I don't wanna smoke because _I_ don't want to! Not because I care about what Ma would say!"

"Alright," Sniper concedes, taking the stub back to his lips and inhaling its final dregs of life. "Won't force ya to,"

"You're smokin' the filter—"

"'S the best part! 'S nothing' at all like a nasty cigarette filter,"

"Now how're you even _talkin'_?! You're _high_!"

"It's not gonna knock the wind outta ya unless you're smokin' some real good stuff—'s here is just a mid—or at least I thought it was, certainly shouldn't smell like this," Sniper grumbles, Scout silent and mesmerized as the man sprinkles flakes of green onto a brown piece of paper, rolling it carefully, licking the rolled up edges and producing a fatter cigar than the previous one.

"Ew, the paper is fuckin' grey with your slobber!"

"Don't matter when you smoke it, love," Sniper sighs, using the edge of the flame of his lighter to dry it shut.

"Gimmie that," Scout snaps, taking the joint in hand and rolling it in his fingers, surveying it criically. "Hey where's your lighter?"

"Thought you weren't smokin'?!"

"Hey whatever, alright? Just gimmie your damn lighter,"

"How're you gonna smoke _my_ weed and tell me t'butt out?!"

Scout sticks his tongue out at the Australian, who hands him the lighter reluctantly.

"I really gotta wonder sometimes what the Hell it is I see in ya, Lawrence,"

Scout shrugs, placing the end of the joint in between his dry lips, taking a few flicks to spark a flame from Sniper's lighter.

"No no _no_, love, you're about t'light the filter…" Sniper positions it correctly, lighting it for him.

"Now take a deep hit, love—no, no, y'don't blow the smoke out right away, 's not a cigarette—good ten seconds—"

"Ow! Fuckin' smoke is _hot_!" Scout sputters, gripping onto his throat and wretching.

"Stop bein' such a pansy, love, if y'don't take the smoke in you're not gonna get high,"

"You didn't tell me that shit fuckin' _burned_!"

"I figured you'd put the two together, but—look, the more used to it the get the more mucus builds up in the back o'your throat, then it won't hurt so much,"

"Fuckin' grody—"

"Take another hit, love, otherwise you're just wastin' good bud—don't suck it like a bloody _vacuum_, just—real gentle, through a little sliver of your lips—_there y'go_—now hold it in," Sniper instructs, smiling as Scout literally holds his breath, quickly growing light headed.

"Alright, now let it out,"

Scout exhales, his chest falling, smoke billowing before his eyes through his parted lips. He smacks them, an organic, somewhat cheesey taste left behind in his mouth, Scout nodding slowly as he passes it back to its owner.

"Eh?" Sniper asks from the corner of his mouth, taking a long, satisfying hit.

"Good Lord, y'drooled all over the filter—what'dja do, tongue kiss the damn thing?"

"Nah, I burned my fuckin' throat, now my mouth tastes like cheese puffs 'nd I ain't even high,"

"Well, lots o'people don't get high the first time—maybe you're just not hittin' it right,"

"How do you even _know_ when you're high if you don't hallucinate?!"

"Trust me love, y'just know,"

"Fuckin' hippie bullshit," Scout snaps, taking the cigar in his fingers as Sniper passes it to him. "You know? It's all startin' to make sense," Scout sighs in between inhales.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah—you got that thick hair, them sunglasses, those weird ass shoes, you bathe like every other day, do drugs—you're a hippie!"

"Come off it, I _murder_ people—"

"Which would ya rather be, a crazed gunman or hippie?!"

"Crazed gunmen at least have sharpshootin' as a skill, hippies don't do anythin' but wank about free love 'nd write music,"

"You justifyin' murder?"

"No, but I have other hobbies besides smokin', love—I'd rather indulge in 'em than play _hacky sack_ with those lice balls—the dames hardly ever wear underwear—'s just not my scene,"

"You're weird, wombat," Scout sighs, glaring up at the stars.

"So this is all weed is? It's nothin', I ain't even high,"

"It takes a second, love—sometimes it hits ya right away, but it's your first time, be a little patient…"

"Uhuh—so then, about my brother—do you think Chris told my other brothers? I'm sure Alex knows, 'nd Paul probably knows too, secrets get around Boston hella fast, but—seriously, why do they gotta act like this? Is it 'cause I'm the only one of them who has a boyfriend? Though, you know what I think?"

"Hm?" Sniper asks, eyes shut, the man in absolute repose.

"Alright—it's gonna sound crazy, but—I don't understand why he would _care_, right? We're all just _people_, Jack—we're _blood related_—it should be his instinct to always be by my side—Anthony ain't married, Alex hasn't had a girlfriend in a while—what if they're gay too? What if, _we're all gay?_ Seriously? Like—here's—here's what I think—we're all born _bisexual_, 'cause how can you know what you like if you've never tried sex with both genders? I think we're all a little gay, don't you? And that hate—it's them _denyin' it_,"

"…you're high off your _mind_, aren't you?" Sniper chuckles, Scout furrowing his brow.

"What? No,"

"Try standin' up," Sniper still smirks, the young man making a motion to stand upon his feet—his head instantly spinning, his vision compressed to pulsating white dots due to the sudden movement, a comfortable pressure throbbing against the back of his head and hands.

"Yup," Sniper smiles as Scout plops back down, the young man quickly smiling himself. "It's hittin' ya."

He pulls an arm around the Bostonian's shoulder, Scout smiling as his body tilts so they rest closer together, his equilibrium sliding loosely behind his eyes, reacting slowly to the momentum of his physical self.

"_Man, Jack,_" Scout beams, his hand brushing idly against Sniper's thin thigh.

"'S nice, isn't it?! Y'don't hallucinate—you're a little slow, a little heavy, but everythin's just alright…"

The two sit in silence as they look up dreamily at the sky, Scout's expression absolutely blissful. Sniper can't help but chuckle at his darling buck teeth, the extent of the young man's smile exposing them in an entirety free from self consciousness; he really did find Scout beautiful, the teeth a charming characteristic of his—he'd always told him not to allow any dental work be done on them…

"You good?" Sniper asks again, Scout nuzzling his way against the Australian, the closeness of their bodies an especially enticing sensation in his current state of mind.

"'S not like you did _ecstasy_," he laughs, referring to Scout's sudden affection.

"But, about your brother—'s nothin', forget about it—you're all old enough t'live your own lives now—not that you shouldn't love them 'nd want to be with them, but it's Lawrence O'clock now—'s your life, be happy the way you want to—y'don't have to sacrifice anythin' so you can all survive anymore—'s not nine o'you to an apartment like before—live for you, love, don't ever compromise who you are…"

"How about we just…don't go back to the base, Jack? We could stay here, forever—we could just like, never show up again, go AWOL—and by time the Administrator knows, like, _shit_, we're gonna be long gone on the way to Australia…"

"She'd figure out, 'nd send someone out t'find us—she knows everythin', love—that screen of hers, prolly watches you on the toot, too,"

"…Dude I'm so high right now," Scout chuckles, his head lulling on his shoulders, his cheeks flushed, eyes narrowed with mirth. "So fuckin' high…"

"Oh _stop_ it, y'sound like a fourteen year old smokin' for the first time…"

"_fourteen year olds_ smoke this stuff?"

"Come on, you're from _Boston_—livin' in a neighbourhood like Springfield, you prolly came 'cross substances much worse than a little bit o' cannabis…"

"Yeah, but—I like—I was _good_, though, always inside when Ma told me to be—Paul probably _knows_….or _you_…"

"Oi, I've tried everythin' at least once, but I'd hardly call myself an addict,"

"So like, what's the worst you've _done_?" Scout folds his arms, Sniper hesitating slightly.

"I dunno if y'really wanna know, gremlin…"

"What was it, like heroin or somethin'?"

"The worst I've done?! PCP, but I _really_ enjoy cocaine—maybe a little too much," Sniper clears his throat, and Sniper knows that if it weren't for the state of his mind, his eyes would be much wider than they are.

"I mean—I was young, about twenty two—was flingin' around, hoolin' up with this bloke from Brisbane—real looker, real charmer—liked it rough in the van, heh—went back t'his place, had no idea _'his place'_ was code for him 'nd some friends of his snortin' that shit in his livin' room,"

"So you just like…_did_ it?"

"Well—I mean—yeah, got real pumped up—ended up havin' wild sex with 'im in his room because of it—but stimulants are pretty bad for my heart, love, figured that one out the bad way,"

"What happened, Snipes?"

"Eh—forget about it—'s jus' say it involved me high tailin' outta Brisbane with a powdered upper lip, naked in the van, goin' 160 kilometers 'n hour tryin' t'get outta there,"

"You don't do it _anymore_, do you?"

"Larry...I...on occasion..." Jack admits, Lawrence slumping against the van. "But it's different now, love—I didn't care back in those days, I was depressed 'nd alone, stealin' in order t'keep gas in the car—didn't care 'bout myself or where I was headed in life, 'nd was completely uneducated 'bout drugs for that matter—figured, I already smoked, what else was there t'lose? Well…"

"Jeeze, Jack, you make me sound like—_so inexperienced_…"

"They weren't good experiences, love, the best I can say is that I learned from them—'nd if I ever, _ever_ hear you mess with it—I'll kick your little arse, you best believe that, mate—"

"Hypocrite…"

"Hmph—maybe, but 's different with you, I gotta keep you safe—then again that bloody _Bonk!_ you're always drinkin' wires you up like cocaine does…"

"So then…_I'm_ a drug addict?"

"Depends on what the Hell's in that stuff…" Sniper chuckles, Scout chewing on his bottom lip.

"So like…how much farther from the base are we?"

"Hm—nice topic change, there—dunno—two days, maybe? If we don't drive straight through?"

"So then we'll have a couple days to the Fort by ourselves…"

"Luc'll be there too, remember?"

"Aw, _fuck_—"

"Oi now, but you'll be spendin' those days with me in bed, 's not like you'll have t'see him…" Sniper growls, bring Scout into his lap, kissing his forehead absentmindedly.

"'S that all you think about? Sex?"

"Havin' it—with you—"

"Am I that good?" Scout smirks pridefully, Sniper scoffing.

"_I_ do all the work, all _you_ have t'do is lean back 'nd make those little noises…"

"Yeah well, keeps your joints from freezin' up on ya, so you get an orgasm _and_ a work out…"

"I'm not _old_…"

"You're getting' there,"

"So're you—you're not too far from thirty yourself,"

"Whatever,"

"I don't have a single grey hair!"

"Cradle robber,"

"Come off it, you wouldn't last a week without my cock,"

Scout chuckles, running his hand through his hair, meeting Sniper's smile, shifting a bit so he sits lazily still in the man's lap.

"No, but honestly—I'll take you out to Teufort itself—the town's nice 'nd small, so we could hit it in a day, maybe we could go hikin' in one o'the nearby canyons—"

"They got a sport's bar in Teufort? The Sox're playin' in three days and I wanna see it!"

"Hm—alright, we'll grab some nice scotch 'nd watch the game, too…"

"Maybe smoke a little afterward?"

"'Ey now, if you're gonna get into this too you're gonna need t'pitch in for sure,"

"How 'bout I just pay you in—_you know_…"

Sniper smirks. Oh boy, did he know. They _both_ know, judging by the way Scout's hand runs its course along his front, stopping his fingers to fiddle with the button of his slacks…

Sniper knows, alright. There were many things he _didn't_, the future wasn't his to predict. How it would all end, if Scout was to ever return to Boston, if they'd grow old together and die in the van, he couldn't say.

"'S'arlight, love," Sniper soothes.

Yeah. It would be alright. They didn't need any sort of drugs for Sniper to conclude that much. He'd _make_ it all alright if he had to.

"We'll work somethin' out."

-

Scout had lost a bit of heaviness to him, Sniper notes, for carrying him into the sleeping room seemed to be an easier feat compared to when Sniper had last carried him in his arms—then again it helped that Scout's clothing was not weighed down by the influence of copious amounts of blood seeping into them this time around.

They'd fallen asleep outside, and if it weren't for Sniper having awoken randomly to find Scout plastered against him, snoring lightly, they might've even remained so until morning.

"The things I do for you, mongrel…" Sniper rolls his eyes, taking a cleat into his hand, bracing himself and letting the lids fall over his eyes as he stops himself from breathing. He sweeps it off Scout's foot in a swift motion in an attempt to just get it over with, but even by steeling his respiratory system Sniper still catches an inhalation of the inside of the young man's_running shoes_. Not that he could help it, of course they were going to smell unpleasant—still…

He plucks the socks off both feet, rolling them up and throwing them in a basket for wash—they'd have to stop by a laundromat on the way back to the 'Fort. He nearly chucks the cleats, putting as much distance between them as quickly as possible; Sniper'd settled with simply naming the shoes 'death'. God forbid Scout should ever find out.

Scout was to be twenty five this coming August, and yet here Sniper was, placing him in his night clothes as if he were some sort of infant. It beat the risk of waking him, Scout would _never_ stop talking if Sniper were to break him out of his sleep in order to dress himself. It was a fair enough exchange, putting on his pajamas and tucking him in as opposed to Scout's late night bitching about whatever the fuck.

Sniper smirks down at him, placing a kiss upon his forehead, continuing with his own nightly routine.

_'If the me from fifteen years ago were to ever have any idea I'd be tuckin' in a boyfriend, I think he'd shoot 'imself.'_

It was a funny thing to think about. To go from years of unstructured flings, careless physical escapades with men whose names he'd often never even known before making love to them—to whatever the Hell _this_ was he had with the Bostonian.

Sniper chuckles out loud, smirking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror; the man who gazes back at him clearly finds it just as hilarious that his relationship with Scout was easily the most _stable and healthy_ one he's ever had.

What in the _world_ did it say about him that a little shit some twelve years his junior (with a highly annoying accent, to boot) whom he was lucky to not anger at the end of every given day was the closest he'd ever been to doing something _right_ in his life?!

Lawrence was the only thing about his whole existence that Sniper couldn't label as being a complete failure—and even then the love he had for him was subordinately objectionable on every level—even his love for Lawrence was, more or less, _wrong_. A queer, A Yank (his father despised both, a queer Yank would probably give the man a heart attack), a BLU with whom he could say he often did _not_ get along with…

Perhaps, then, Sniper concludes, smacking his razor against the small metal sink and dragging it further across his stubble laden jaw, Lawrence was, along with everything else, completely wrong too; but like Hell he'd ever want it to be right.

After years and years of bedding handsome men in some of the seediest situations, and Sniper settles with the blue eyed brat whose name he'd actually bothered to _learn_ before fucking. Hell, he'd even gone as far as to _befriend_ and genuinely _care_for him.

But it wasn't _settling_, the man truly did love Lawrence more than anything, more than he could possibly love someone in his life. Everything about him Sniper hated was that exactly what he couldn't get enough of. It was the exception of war—had Sniper crossed paths with Scout anywhere else, he probably would have murdered the young man.

Then again maybe not, Scout also had the ability to be a compassionate, sweet, genuinely loving person. He was loyal and ambitious, always dreaming—it took a lot to bring Scout down, and even then he was already fighting his way back up—without him, Sniper had nothing else to live for. There were many wonderful qualities Scout possessed, and Sniper had honestly grown to love each and every one, be they ideal or not.

What then, he wonders quietly as he cups water to wash the small brown hairs down the drain, was it that the younger of the two saw in _him_? Surely there was a boy closer to his own age that could offer him more than a van and a jaded, halfhearted outlook on life through the eyes of a killer who had no hope for either himself or the world. Perhaps Scout was the one who was _really_ settling.

"Hey, Snipes…"

Sniper looks up, smiling at the reflection of the very subject of his most recent thoughts. He smiles as Scout rubs his eyes, obviously just having gotten up a few seconds ago.

"Hey, love…"

Scout yawns before stretching.

"I just wanted to say that—y'know, I had fun with you out there…"

"Oh—I'm glad, mongrel," Sniper nods, splashing the last of the cream off his face with water.

"Told ya you'd prolly like it—'nd you're not an addicted hussy like Miss Landers insisted you were,"

"Yeah—I wasn't expectin' smokin' dope to be so fun—'specially not with _your_ ass, but hey, I really _did_ have a good time—it felt good as Hell…"

"Well, don't get too caught up in it, smokin' too much too often'll kill your memory 'nd make ya kinda flabby, like your brother,"

"Who, Alex?!"

"Yeah,"

"He smokes?!"

Sniper chuckles; only _Scout_ would be so oblivious.

"Oh, Lawrence, you crack me up, y'really do, love…"

"I had no idea he smokes,"

"He's about as active as a sloth—'nd I don't want your Doc comin' at me if you don't pass your next physical 'cause you're a little _too_ into the—y'know…"

"Nah, you ain't gotta worry 'bout him—Lard fat passes 'em somehow, I'll be fine,"

Scout brings a hand to pat against Sniper's smooth cheek, his fingers twisting the man's profile so he may get a better look at the whole of his face.

"You were gettin' a little hairy, yeah—but how the fuck do you get such a close shave?!"

"Patience,"

"Oh? 'Cause I always end up missin' like a _patch_, 'nd it looks super awkward,"

"_You_ shave?!"

"'Course I do!" Scout attempts to scoff as if it were so _obvious_, but instead ends up sounding hysterical.

"Why you gotta sound so surprised, though?!"

"Seriously?! Y'don't even have hair on your _arms_, let along anythin' worth shavin' on your _face_!"

"Hey now, I got some shadow!"

Sniper raises an eyebrow; save the freckles near his nose and the imprint of his dimples upon his cheeks, his face was completely unblemished by hair (or any traces of it) or acne—he must've had a relatively painless transition into puberty.

Though clearly an adolescent, there was still somewhat of a boyish air about him—perhaps it was his attitude, his highly unadult like attitude regarding himself and his own greatness doing much to setback the mature aura his developed body would otherwise radiate. It didn't help that he was lean and rather small anyway, as a runner's physique was already slim to begin with.

Shaving should have been the _last_ thing on his mind.

"You've seen me naked, the hair above my dick—"

"Yeah, but what's that got t'do with shavin' hair on your face that doesn't exist?!"

Scout takes a superfluous squeeze of shaving cream into his hands, spreading it aggressively about his jaw and grimacing at the reflection of the Australian in the mirror.

"Think you're so fuckin' great with your chest and armhair—"

"I'm not sayin' it's _great_, just that you've got smooth skin—'s not a problem, you don't look like a _child_, you just, aren't—"

"_What_, Snipes, _manly_?!"

"Now you're puttin' words into my mouth—"

"Maybe I don't wanna look like a fuckin' bear no way—"

"Oi, now, I'm not a _bear_…"

"Hairy thighs—"

"'Nd yet you _love_ my treasure trail," Sniper teases, Scout flipping him off, still searching for a clean razor. "Drives ya crazy the way it just _disappears_ below the belt," Sniper jokes, bringing his hands to tug at the waist of his slacks.

"Y'got nice, smooth skin, love—what, do you _want_ to look like puberty exploded on ya ten years too late?!"

"Watch, I'm gonna shave 'nd you're gonna see a fuckin' difference,"

"Alright, I'll watch 'nd wait for you t'use _my_ razor 'nd _my_ cream, 'cause clearly you've never needed the products on your own—"

"Fuck _OFF_, Snipes—!"

"Only for you to not look any different whatsoever—"

"Do you _always_ gotta be a dick?! Why can't you just watch me shave 'nd cum your pants 'cause it's so hot?!"

"Who said I wasn't gonna?" Sniper chuckles, Scout scoffing and twisting to reach his left cheek.

"Fuckin' perv…"

"You said you wanted me t'jizz from admiration of your manly display, love!"

"I didn't say _tell_ me about it—hey, what're you doin'?!"

"Why're you shavin' your damn _cheek_, love, jus' bring it 'round the jaw, like this…" Sniper instructs, taking Scout's chin into his fingertips, guiding the razor gently along Scout's prominent jawline.

"You've never even shaved the dust off your upper lip, have you?!"

Scout sticks out his tongue, grimacing as he catches the cream he'd slathered upon his skin in his mouth.

"See? Nice slow strokes like how I've gotcha—not those ridiculous cat scratches on your cheek," he laughs, smacking the razor against the sink, a glob of hairless cream landing in it with a moist _plop_.

"Oi—didja cut yourself?" Sniper asks, rubbing his thumb against a small knick near his mouth, fresh blood seeping into the pad of it.

"Oi now, you didn't have any idea what you were doin', did ya?" Sniper sighs, grabbing a towel and wiping Scout's face, pressing it against the small cut.

"Why do you always gotta assume I just don't _know_?! Maybe my hand slipped—I ain't no kid," Scout spits, though Sniper has a feeling he harbours a general, long cultivated frustration at this sort of thing as opposed to Sniper himself.

"'S wrong, your brothers used t'tease you about it?"

Scout says nothing, taking the towel in hand, and growling as not a difference was made.

"Luc 'nd them always used to hog up the bathroom in the mornin' _shavin'_ 'nd shit, 'nd _I_ was lucky if I had a hair sproutin' out a fuckin' _zit_—"

"Y'know _why_ your brothers were shavin' like mad, love?! 'Cause they have that ridiculous, red haired peach fuzz that grows like a thicket if they don't nab it everyday—seriously, 've you _seen_ Christopher's unibrow? He's a handsome guy, you all are, but he's got a red haired unibrow, 'nd Alex prolly has the most _awkward_ peach fuzz I've ever seen in my life—seriously love—_red haired peach fuzz_—they prolly all look at _you_ 'nd wish that they had a face like yours—seriously! You're absolutely_stunnin'_, love, you've got that perfect, clear skin, those flushed little cheeks, those blue eyes—'nd those cute little freckles—not only're you the baby, but you're the hot one 'nd they prolly all want you dead for it! 'Course they're gonna make you feel like less of a man 'cause you don't have awkward ginger forests sproutin' in between your toes. So own it 'nd quit cuttin' your cute little face up goin' after an imaginary unibrow you should be glad you didn't inherit,"

Scout is speechless.

Sniper smiles, lifting the towel away from his cheek, the small gash flesh coloured, camouflaging with the natural redness of Scout's cheeks to begin with. He lets Scout grab hold of his cheeks and pull him into a gentle kiss, his soft lips garnished with the sour taste of the shaving cream's spice, the words obviously having done much to comfort him.

"You waste too much time tryin' t'convince people you're somethin' by drawin' attention to the things you're not," Sniper explains, leading Scout back into the sleeping room.

"I know you're not a child—you can _act_ like one 'nd you can be a bloody handful with that 'tude o'yours, but you're hidin' away a real sweet person behind all that wankery 'cause you're too blind t'realise just how good you've actually got it—I mean, come on, you're so hot you're datin' an _Aussie_! We're hot, right?"

"Pfft—you're a jaw dropper, pickin' me up for dates in your _camper van_,"

"'Nd t'think you wanna move in with me,"

"Naw, this is how it's gonna happen—we're gonna tour the US in the van, right?! Then we're gonna find a way to get to Europe with it, get fucked up, have some crazy ass adventures—maybe even almost _die_ a couple times—have some run ins with some crazy ass Euro pigs, and I'm gonna bail you outta jail, then we're gonna flee and end up getting' held up at the Soviet border—so then we hustle our way around and we find our way to Australia—then we tour out there, find a nice house, move in, and then we just chill,"

"Sounds turbulent,"

"Yeah, 'nd we're gonna be all '_I'm too old for this shit,_' and we're just gonna have a house down there—with Boston 'nd Bauldelaire, 'nd, y'know…"

"What?"

"Not tell our families the address 'cause then they'd come and kill us for bein' fags,"

"'Ey now, forget all them; this is your fantasy, 'nd they don't matter 'cause they don't love you like I do…"

"Aw," Scout groans, growing embarrassed, though obviously touched by Sniper's words.

"Hm—y'got some resin on your lips, from earlier," Sniper chuckles, bringing his thumb to brush the crystalline proof of their earlier indulgences from his mouth, leaning to turn off the bedside lamp seconds later.

"Honestly—forget about them—y'gotta get your head back in 'Fort mode if y'wanna keep your wits about ya,"

Scout rests against him, his smooth, shaven cheek pressed against Sniper's chest, wasting no time in dozing back off to sleep.

"Forget about 'em, love; I've got ya, no matter what."


	21. Dinner and Etiquette

If ever a previously spoken word had gone on to offend the flattened mattress upon which Scout had come to know as his and Sniper's _"bed"_, the phonemes were certainly retracted; the planete boxspring, less than accommodating for someone with standards higher than those of a Bushman or a young man bred in the innercity, meant to face squalor in the eye and accept poverty as his own. The faded linens, bleached and washed out after many cycles of laundry, still prove to possess a comfort to them like a swarthy older man still staggered about with charm. The pillow, beatened by months of Scout's head rolling across it in restless sleep. All in all topped with the particular musk the Australian lent to his own place of rest; the fabrics and cushions marinated in the earthy spice of the man, packed with an unmistakable presence lingering in the fibers of the fabric as if drenched heavily with the brown, weighted cologne of a rich man.

And yet _still_ Scout snores, mouth agape and wholly content as his arms disregard the meaning of his joints, the acrobatics of his twisted limbs allowing him to hold tighter onto the Sniper's scent dominated pillow. Then again who was to say the cotton of the faux down was still bound to Sniper's genetics; strands of Scout's hair stuck to the case here and there like brown whiskers, and he'd drooled pools of slobber to the point Sniper labeled the pillow once belonging to himself _'Lawrence's'_ with a repugnance that suggested he did not want it back. It didn't matter; the already awake and active (though not necessarily_dressed_, the Australian still wearing only his boxers and white undershirt) Sniper seemed to have to different plans. Plans that held little regard for Scout and his oasis of pleasant sleep amongst the parched hoodoos of spring induced allergies and Sniper's legs kicking the poor Bostonian onto the floor unknowingly in his sleep.

Sniper's wristwatch chirrups, one monotone "beep" signaling that highnoon has approached; not that Jack needed the automated drone. The sunlight that trails in through the small window, filtered a carnation pink due to its passing through the dark red curtains Sniper has primly tacked up, is indication enough. The rose coloured rays hit Scout's body and distort against his mass as if the young man were some sort of unknowing sundial. The very same half naked Scout who lies face down against the bed does not seem so willing to give up sleep without some sort of fight, though the young man was never one to relinquish anything Sniper sought from him so easily in the first place. Not even as Sniper aims his foot so it both disturbs the bed and lifts the mattress off the camper floor, the bottom left corner temporarily airborne. Scout's moan is more of a muffled whine, long and drawn out, like a creaking door grunting as a weakish wind blows it open.

"_Get up_,"

"_Fuck you_,"

"Mornin'," Sniper smirks with raised eyebrows, Scout's yell absolutely bloodcurdling as the Australian wrenches the sheets and untangles them from his body. Sniper, though clearly still shaking off sleep the way he drowsily rubs his fist against his lidded eyes, is not too asleep to not be able to dodge an early morning baseball aimed for his body, Scout having kept many around in the camper for whatever reason—presumably to throw at him.

"I see you're in a right peachy mood," Sniper smirks, catching the fast ball nonchalantly with his left hand.

"Fuck off, prick,"

"OI! Who the _Bloody Hell_ d'you think you are, tellin' me _t'fuck off_ when you're sleepin' in my bed?! Remember who bought you those baseballs t'begin with?!"

"It ain't like you ever play with me…"

"Well sorry if I can't find the time t'play _baseball_ with the enemy Scout in the middle of a _war_,"

"But you got _plenty_ of time to fuckin' wake me up and kick me outta bed when I'm sleepin'…"

"You'd prolly jus' cry if I beat ya at baseball anyway…"

"Fuck you,"

"'S that all you got for insults love?! Gettin' rises outta ya used t'be way more fun…"

"I can't think o'shit when some punk ass _Australian_'s kickin' the bed and makin' me get up!"

"Yup; gotta get up at the crackin' hour o'_noon_, how dare I, mean ole _Jack_—"

"Fuck you, you _are_ mean!"

"You've been asleep for nearly twelve bloody hours—!"

"Yeah, still, maybe I wanted to sleep _another_ twelve hours—"

"Not t'day you aren't," Sniper smirks, twirling the sheets in his arms before throwing them in the wicker hamper, which overflows, laundry spewing from the disheveled lid like bubbling saliva over frothed lips; the sight of their dirty wash was certainly as pleasant. "Any other day I'd let ya sleep 'til four 'nd keep me up all night, but we got plans today,"

"_We_?"

"Yup,"

Scout sucks the air with which he meant to ask "_what kind of plans?!_" hastily through his sealed lips, sitting up and eyeing the Australian curiously nonetheless. Sniper grins; he'd piqued Scout's interest by withholding from him the more interesting details. A whole two minutes go by in which Scout wills himself not to give into his own curiosity like Jack assuredly wanted him to. Instead he settles with watching the older man go about the sleeping room (not that there was much room to it) and collect their clothing, the man clearly waiting for Scout to explode before long. They exchange glances briefly; Sniper's chipper eyes round with a pleasant patience about them, though clearly demonstrating that he would not elaborate unless asked specifically. Scout twiddles his thumbs and even picks up yet another loose baseball near the edge of the bed, though this one is not homed for the purposes of Anti-Jack violence, thus he simply tosses it in his hands.

"Jus' go 'head 'nd _ask_, Lawr—"

"_What kind of plans_?!" the young man spits as if containing the words for so long had caused a combustible pressure against his lips.

"Funny you should _ask_, Lawrence!" Sniper beams, Scout placing his feet against the floor, cracking his lower back unabashedly. Sniper gives him a brief kiss before heading toward the kitchenette.

"'Cause I ain't gonna tella ya,"

"_Aw, fuck you, Jack!_" Scout growls, unable to resist tailing the Australian.

"Yup, twelve fifteen," Sniper sighs somewhat whimsically, bringing his wrist eye level. "Rise 'nd shine, gremlin, we got a big day ahead of us!"

"Yeah, yeah, you got up like, _ten_ fuckin' minutes before me…"

"Every minute counts when y'got a day as big as the one we've got!"

"Seriously, I'm just gonna ignore you until you tell me what the fuck's got you shittin' rainbows," Scout snaps, folding his arms and leaning his bare back against the cool metal counter.

"Right; lessie how long that'll last, hm?"

"Seriously, Jack, I don't like that smile…"

"Half a second; 's that a new record o'yours?!"

"Ugh, would you _please_ just tell me what the fuck is goin' _on_, Jack?!"

"Sure thing, love, after breakfast; or lunch. Dunno if you can really call any meal after twelve noon _breakfast_—"

"I dunno if you can call dust flakes a _meal_, wombat—we ain't got shit in here no more…"

"What? I thought we stopped by the grocery a day ago…"

"Yeah, either we _didn't_ or we bought ten dollars worth o'fuckin' _dust_—"

"Well, sorry love, I—" Sniper gives the empty cupboard a look over before sighing sympathetically, closing the varnished doors and bringing a hand to wrap around Scout's neck affectionately. "I thought we'd gotten somethin' before leavin' Boston…"

"Yeah well, clearly we didn't…"

"Ah, bucker up, now, gremlin, I'd never let y'starve…"

"Sometimes I gotta wonder, when you get pissed, you look like you wanna do things to me…"

"I don't need t'be pissed t'wanna _do_ things to ya…" Sniper chuckles, pulling Scout against him seductively.

"Not _those_ type of things, the things that just give ya the feelin' you ain't gonna be around much longer…"

"Well, now ain't one o'those times for one o'those things; so whaddaya say, love? We've got _some_ stuff in here—look, we got some real nice cracked wheat bread your mum packed, some dried dates, some vegemite—"

"Alright _gramps_, you got anything other than laxatives 'nd healthy shit?!"

"Hey now, vegemite's good! Every real Aussie's got a jar or two in their cupboard, 's a favourite back home!"

"What is it?!"

"_Y'act like y'can't read the jar_—"

"Concentrated…._yeast extract_?! Jack, what the _fuck_—"

"It's _good_—"

"What's it taste like, Jack—"

"…Good…."

"_Concentrated yeast extract and fuckin' dates_—I oughta call the cops on ya for abusin' me—"

"Hey, both're perfectly delicious foods! 'Nd honestly, jus' spread a little bit o'vegemite over toast, I swear you'd like it!"

"Does it come out brown like that?!"

"I'm not answerin' your question 'til y'actually _try_ it—"

"Fuck you, fuck your nasty ass _prunes_ and your bread fungus!"

"Well 'scuse me for tryin' t'find a nice little meal t'settle ya,"

"Dried prunes, Snipes—dried prunes and fuckin' fungus—"

"Whatever—I'm gonna make myself a nice vegemite toast 'nd you're gonna see me chowin' down 'nd you're gonna wanna bite—"

"Nah, we got some strawberries in the mini fridge, and some bananas, and an orange—I'll just eat that instead,"

"'Lright —what're you lookin' at me like that for, y'don't expect me t'_cut_ the fruit for ya?!"

"It would be _nice_," Scout grins, kissing the grumbling Australian on the cheek. "I'll be waitin' outside in the sunshine, alright—"

"You'ven't got on a thing 'cept your _undies_, Lawrence!"

"Who _cares_?! It ain't like anyone's anywhere close for fuckin' _miles_! Plus maybe I'm tryin' to _tan_,"

"Bullshit, you're a little white Irish boy, y'_burn_,"

"Hey! I get dark!"

"Paper white isn't dark t'normal people, love…"

"Nah, for real, my arms are golden brown!"

Sniper just chuckles, handing Scout the plate of sliced fruit the Australian had prepared for him within the last two minutes.

"'Lright, go on, I'll set up the little patio table…" Sniper grumbles, referring to the circular, folded plastic table tucked away neatly behind the armchair in the sitting room. He sighs, Scout actually headed outside in nothing but his underwear, his body sleek with what Sniper assumes must be _sunscreen_.

_'Figures little bugger wouldn't want me seein' 'im basically admittin' that he really does burn'_

But when Sniper comes out, also having discarded his shirt to follow Scout's trend of pretty much naked tanning, he finds the young man isn't lying; already his front bakes a rich, olive brown, though not so dark he becomes more brown than golden. Jack frowns slightly, though he decides not to comment (he'd learned from Scout to acknowledge having been shown wrong by not acknowledging it at all for the sake of pride).

"Come sit under the umbrella, love, I set it up for you…"

"Alright, just makin' sure my back _tans as nicely as my front_," Scout sticks his tongue out at the Australian before plopping into his plastic white chair, the armrests sharp along the edges. The plastic actually _bends_ with his body as he twists and kicks his legs about.

"Eat up, love…" Sniper mumbles dotingly, handing Scout his plate.

"Yeah, thanks!"

Sniper nods, chewing pleasantly on a bite of vegemite toast, the crunch of the crisped bread causing Scout to look up from his fruit assortment and grimace.

"_What the fuck is that brown shit—?!_"

"'S vegemite,"

"Dude, it fuckin' looks like you spread axel grease all over that,"

"You look like a bitch, I'd still spread ya,"

"Dude, that sounds so fuckin' wrong,"

"'S 'cause it is,"

"Seriously; what the fuck is that shit?!"

"_'S vegemite_!"

"Whatever, you just keep—"

"Try some,"

"_NO_!"

"Try some!"

"NO!"

"_Try some_—!"

Scout doesn't have a choice as the Australian shoves the half eaten slice of bread into his mouth, the young man shaking his head and spitting the soggy bread back on the plate.

"Tastes like jizz,"

"No it doesn't, you're bein' dramatic—got my toast all wet—"

"It's salty like jizz,"

"But it ain't,"

"It's nasty like jizz,"

"Then I don't get what you're wankin' about, you _love_ it when I come in your little mouth," Sniper growls, chuckling softly as Scout accepts defeat and slams his back moodily against the white chair, going back to his fruit plate.

"You'd think you'd eat my jizz for breakfast right up,"

"You are so nasty, Jack…" Scout snaps, throwing a few orange seeds at the smirking Australian.

"Hmph—I'm not the little freak, 's you! Look at the way you're lovin' on that strawberry over there, your tongue's strokin' it, 'nd your lips're all puckered—bet you'd make your mum faint with a display like that,"

"You're prolly just jealous, wishin' it was your dick instead," Scout sneers, narrowing his eyes and keeping them fixed on the momentarily stunned Sniper as he savors the fruit in a fashion reminiscent of suggestive indulgences.

"Listen t'_you_, sayin' _prolly_, I think your mum was up t'somethin' when she said you're startin' t'sound a lot like me—but no, I'm not _jealous_, I've got my vegemite bread,"

"Says your boner—yeah, you can't hide that shit in just boxers, wombat," Scout grins haughtily through a mouthful of chewed fruit, the mush tumbling in a sick wet lush in between his teeth. Spit dyed a semi red from the juices dribbles from his lips, leaving a bit of a sticky residue to stain his cheeks and chin.

"Nah, don't _hide_ it…" Scout growls, Sniper returning the young man's wanton disposition by spreading his arms, leaving his chest bare so that the Scout who nears him can crawl into the chair with ease, situating himself on his lap.

"I ain't ever gotta do much to turn you on as it is, Jack…"

"Piss off…"

"So…" Scout winks, bringing his lips to brush across the line of the man's jaw affectionately. "…You gonna tell me?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full love, 's rude…"

"You gonna tell me?!"

"Tell you _what_"

"About the plans!"

"Oh—yeah, those—"

"Yeah _those_, Tell me!"

"Dunno if I should—y'haven't said please,"

"Dude, your fuckin' hard on's like, _pushin' me off your lap and on the ground_—"

Sniper chuckles, but otherwise shows no signs of having heard the Scout who shifts to better hoist himself around the Australian.

"Why don't y'tell it off, love, I swear it won't bite…" Sniper teases, kissing the young man's neck, his hands digging into the flesh of Scout's sensitive back.

"N—nah…" he sighs, doing his best to maintain composure, for Sniper's hands against his back was always the easiest way to undo his resolve. "I ain't doin' shit to your nothin' 'til you tell me why we're wakin' up and you're gushin' over plans,"

"'Lright, 'lright, settle yourself, I'll tell ya…"

"Only 'cause you want your dick rubbed,"

"Or maybe I jus' wanna do somethin' nice for ya…"

"Yeah right—"

"No _really_, I was thinkin' since we've got a day t'spare with drivin', we could maybe hit St. Louis 'nd I jus' take you out for a nice meal 'nd, maybe go walkin' t'gether, see the city at night…"

"Since when do _you_ wanna take me out in public—"

"Since it hit me I'm in love with someone as precious as you—aw look, you're _smilin'_, love…" Sniper smirks at Scout's unabashed beam, Jack patting his cheek softly.

"No, but seriously—I was jus' thinkin' on some words Mum always used t'tell me…"

"So then I _ain't_ precious—"

"You're my everythin', Lawrence, but _everythin's_ a hell of a lot t'take out in public 'nd not expect t'fuck _somethin'_ up—"

"So what did _mum_ say—?"

"Well, my Mum was a real old fashioned dame; imagine she still is, assumin' nothin's changed; whenever Leslie even_mentioned_ a boy's name Mum was sendin' weddin' invites all 'cross Australia—got family on every coast—she had standards, Lawrence; she's the type that'll call ya a slob if y'put your elbows on the dinner table—but that's not the point; thing is, I'm jus' glad she ain't breathin' over my shoulder out here 'cause she'd have some words 'bout our relationship 'nd the way we go about…"

"'Cause we both got dicks?"

"No, 's not an issue for Mum—she's not beggin' the lesbian couple lookin' for a home t'move in next door, but she's nowhere_near_ as intolerant 's Dad—"

"What about two dudes?"

"Hm—she didn't even know it could _happen_ 'til she realized her son was in love with one—I _swear_, my parents—but, y'know, Mum jus' squicks at the idea o'sex 'nd datin' in general, 's a wonder how she ended up with two kids—prolly likes t'believe the stork brought her little babies or some such drivel…"

"Sounds like my Grandma—she freaks out if you say _darn_ and called Ma a bad mother when we missed church _one_ Sunday 'cause I was on the brink of death with Pneumonia,"

"I reckon Mum's a few years younger than your Gran, but 's jus' the generation, y'know? Leslie thought y'got pregnant by_holdin' hands_ until she was seventeen years old—sex was jus' never talked about, imagine how _I_ felt,"

"Jeeze,"

"Anyway—the only things she did say about datin' was that it was impolite for a bloke t'bed a partner without takin' 'em out t'dinner first,"

"Little too late for that then, huh? You owe me a _lotta_ dinner, wombat,"

"Hey, you 'nd Mum can both know y'can always make up for lost time,"

"Yeah, but do we really gotta make it up when I was finally sleepin'?! Like better than I've slept in, like, a thousand years?! Seriously, Snipes, I was _gone_, and you wake me up for nothin',"

"Somethin' tells me you're exaggeratin' just a bit…"

"Yeah well, I exaggerate when I get _fucked_ on an empty stomach,"

"Oi, y'weren't even _thinkin'_ about dinners 'nd proper datin' etiquette until I mentioned it!"

"Maybe you shouldn't bring shit up then,"

"Y'didn't even know it was a thing,"

"Well maybe your Ma was onto somethin', you opened my eyes now I know you owe me a steak dinner,"

"I figured you'd wanna do somethin' real nice 'nd fancy like that—y'get used t'grey clumps as an excuse for food when you're at the 'Fort for _too_ long, 'nd it sure isn't like I've got the camper stocked with the finest eats—"

"With your jizz toast,"

"Oi, any other time I got stuff you're sneakin' 'cross _land mines_ at two in the mornin', knockin' on the door 'cause I'm the only one with salted potato crisps for miles around!"

"I'm desperate,"

"I'll say,"

"Look, all I'm sayin' is I haven't sat down and eaten at a restaurant in fuckin' years, since I got thrown in jail!"

"I can sympathise, love, 's no reason t'explain yourself! I haven't sat down at a real _restaurant_ in a good while myself; apart from that I'd like t'take you out now I have the chance," Sniper grins, Scout reddening, though cautious with optimism.

"You mean like…on a date?"

"Well what else would it be, Lawrence?" the Australian chuckles. "I've been in love with ya for nearly three years 'nd I've never taken y'out, made you feel special…"

"That's real sweet of you, wombat…"

"I love you, y'know, 'nd I don't show it like I should…"

"Nah…that ain't true…"

"Thing is, I'm thinkin' if we're gonna make this a real nice night, we're pullin' all the stops; we're _bathin'_, shavin', we're gonna smell good 'nd change our undies, use our indoor voices, not talk about blood 'nd how crazy Jane is, maybe wear some nice suits—"

"_Whoa_ Jack, I'll bathe 'nd shit, but I ain't puttin' on no suit,"

"Well if I'm takin' you out t'some fancy places you're gonna look like y'have some class!"

"Right, _class_, says the freakin' Bushman who's just sittin' here with his boner pokin' me all over the place, eatin' jizz on toast and diggin' in his hairy belly button—"

"Oi, I plucked it yesterday…"

"_Class_ says the dude livin' in a van with pee jars everywhere—"

"'Nd you wonder why people never break in, I'm sure the jar in the window lets 'em know I don't bugger around,"

"_Class_ says the guy who accepts handjobs under the kitchen table when my Ma's makin' breakfast,"

"'Lright, 'lright! I'm not sayin' I'm _classy_, which's why I'm sayin' we _need_ t'maybe put on a little bit of a show 'nd…_not_ receive_or_ give handjobs under tables tonight,"

"I'll put on a show, but I ain't puttin' on no suit,"

"'Nd if y'want the steak dinner you're gonna need t'put on the suit,"

"Fuck you, fuck the suit,"

"'Lright, no dinner for you, then,"

"I'm gonna tell everyone you're a trashy ass boyfriend, fuckin' me every night and you haven't even taken me out on a real date,"

"I'm pretty sure savin' your life twelve thousand _bloody_ times might be good enough! 'Nd we don't _even_ fuck every night, you only jus' started havin' sex with me a couple weeks ago!"

"Uh yeah, uh, Jack…"

"What…?"

"I mean, I know it ain't _sex_, but—sometimes, when you were sleepin', and I was just, you know, spendin' the night with ya or whatever—I'd touch your dick—"

"_What_?!"

"Not every time, just—_just sometimes_!"

"I don't believe you…"

"Sorry, Jack, I just—I told ya I wanted ya—"

"So you fondled me in my sleep?!"

"You liked it though!"

"How, I was asleep!"

"You would—you would roll over, and—and mumble and you'd come every time!"

"Jesus, Lawrence," Sniper sighs, plucking Scout off his lap and standing up to collapse the table. "I don't care how many jarate jars're in the window, 'least I don't _touch people in their sleep_—"

"Yeah, well, all I'm sayin' is I ain't wearin' your fuckin' suit,"

"I'm tryin' t'do somethin' sweet for you; I wanna take you out, let ya eat somethin' real nice, show you the city, take you out 'nd have a good time, 'nd you're standin' here sayin' _fuck you_ because maybe I want us t'look nice?! I mean, _honestly_, Scout, I've spent the last three years tryin' t'murder you 'nd I swear we've buggered everywhere but in a right _bedroom_—"

"Nah, we did it in my bedroom in Boston, remember?"

"Oh—true…"

"My bed was squeakin'…"

"I guess what I'm tryin' t'say is, I wanna be a real gentleman to ya tonight; not just some crazed gunman on the enemy team you've somehow developed feelin's for, but—like a pair actually _fit_ for human society,"

"Whatever Jack, I ain't puttin' on no suit,"

"Why're you so against it, Lawrence, tell me—"

"It ain't that I'm against it, it's just that I fuckin' _hate_ dressin' up and I don't know why you're actin' like we gotta if we have to go out!"

"'S jus' what people do, Scout, it ain't _my_ rule—"

"Then how come you're makin' it a rule for me?!" Lawrence snaps, Sniper shaking his head as he collapses the umbrella and table, walking with bowed knees as his slowly dying hardon proves to impede his otherwise weightless step.

"Anyone else would _love_ the idea o'getting' spruced up 'nd bein' treated t'dinner by their—_boyfriend_, ugh—a steak dinner in the city, no less—"

"Yeah well, I ain't _anyone else_, I'm Lawrence, and I fuckin' hate suits—I'm surprised you even have the fuckin' money to take me anywhere to begin with,"

"In case you've forgotten, I get a monthly paycheck for tryin' t'kill ya…"

"Tryin',"

"Oi—I could 'nd you know it—you're lucky I'm in love with ya, y'little shit," Sniper growls, Scout sticking his tongue out defiantly at the exasperated man.

"Seriously, Lawrence, d'you give your Mum this much trouble?"

"No, I do everything she says, 'cause she don't make me put on shit I don't wanna,"

"Y'sound like a tot that doesn't wanna take a bath or somethin'…" Sniper spits, tucking the patio set behind the lounge chair, and Scout can tell by the shortness of his words that he finds his childlike defiance and attitude anything but endearing. Still, the young man settles with maintaining the immature charade, balling his fists and watching the Australian clean up their miniature picnic from the corner of his eye, both men caught up in determined silence.

It _did_ seem rather spoiled on his end, Scout muses, proof of his introspection manifesting itself in the form of a short, weary sigh. Here Jack was, altering his plans yet again for the Bostonian's entertainment. The bastardization of Sniper's intentions to camp in the mountains has become what Scout'd heard the man call a "Lawrencepalooza" under his breath, and the more rational side of the young man's thought process unable to dispute Sniper's claim in its truthfulness.

"Hey, Jack…" Scout begins, bringing his eyes to the man's full height, hesitating just slightly as the man flashes his grey eyes on him briefly. They're fogged with a distinct coldness, piercing and reprimanding in his quiet and otherwise internalized displeasure at the Scout's attitude.

Scout was used to an irritated Sniper; the two argued more than enough, so that anyone spending the day with them the first time wouldn't believe either of them when they said they were together, a lie of massive proportions. Scout was used to getting a rise out of Jack, out of challenging him, provoking him, battling and antagonizing him. Their first encounter had been heated, with threats of death thrown about as casually as one would throw a wave to a friendly stranger. On any normal day the barrels of their guns were rooted onto the other as if magnetized, as if polarity were a concept conceived solely for the two; Scout was used to conflict between them.

Still, the familiarity of their heated dynamic was the near literal excitement that ignited them both to step up to the other and the competition they brought with them. Both were ready to accept the other's challenge and best it at the very least. Sniper however abandons pride completely, the fire absent from his person, frowning quietly as he bustles about. It wasn't an egotistical squabble this time, the Australian was actually _hurt_. And therein lied the difference between then and _this time_.

He hated seeing the man like this. As much as he found his mouth running ahead to assure the older of the two of them that he _didn't give a shit_, as scathingly as possible.

"Jack, listen…" Scout clears his throat, stepping into the camper and closing the door behind him. "I—I really wanna go out with you tonight, _really_—it's really sweet of you, not just 'cause I want dinner but because, you know, I really wanna be with you—I just hate suits, and I just ain't gonna wear one."

-

"I dunno what you were doin' all that belly achin' for before, love—y'look absolutely _stunnin'_…" Sniper sighs at the Bostonian scowling at his reflection, patting the royal blue dresscoat so it hugs his breast.

"I look like a fuckin' _Mormon_…" Scout spits, narrowing his eyes at himself. He couldn't quite place his finger on it; perhaps it was the flannel material, the notched lapel, the light blue dress shirt he dons underneath the jacket itself, the buttoned collar crowned with a tie in the middle, the silk also a dark blue. Scout could distinctly remember the way the doorbell would ring incessantly on a random Sunday morning, how the burden of answering it was placed unspokenly upon him.

He could remember looking the young men up and down, in their suits very similar to his now, with only two buttons to the dresscoat, black however in hue. He could remember their waxed haircuts and their soft smiles, the sleek black dress shoes that appeared more and more expensive the longer he looked at them. Those men, cutting into his weekend sleep, Scout had never forgotten them. As he'd yawned and accepted _whomever_ they wanted him to on those occasions in hopes it would speed things along, he silently gave the visitors a silent look and vowed, no matter what, that he would never look like a tool as they had.

Fifteen years later, however, Scout can only say he let the young man of his past down.

"I look like I should be handin' out pamphlets on Joseph Smith or somethin'," Scout spits, Jack however smiling and resting his chin on Scout's shoulder as he hugs him from behind.

"Y'look like a _babe_, 's more like it…"

"Yeah, well I don't _feel_ like no babe, wombat—I feel grody as _fuck_, actually, which is what you said you _didn't_ want…"

"'S 'cause you haven't _bathed_ yet,"

"'S 'cause your ass was takin' forever in there,"

"A man's gotta shave…"

"You shaved, like, yesterday…"

"Grows back right quick on me,"

"Still, you shouldn't take forty five minutes _shavin'_, prolly took all the hot water, asshole…"

"Oi now, 's only five, we've got all night…"

"Yeah, which reminds me," Scout smirks with finality at his reflection as he concludes that the cut and colour really _does_compliment his frame.

"You plannin' on rollin' into town in this thing? I feel like it ain't gonna look right, two dudes hot as us just strollin' out of an old ass _peemobile_,"

"The _peemobile_ ain't gonna be sittin' at the table with us," Sniper grumbles, clearly indignant about referring to his daughter of a van as something so derogatory.

"Still, it wouldn't surprise me if no one ain't in a rush to valet park it—catch," Scout beams, tossing the man who now faces the mirror his jacket, dress shirt, and tie, the Bostonian half naked save his form fitting dress pants, though the young man wastes no time in undoing the brown belt that holds them against his waist.

"Don't _wrinkle_ it, now—"

"Hey, I ain't wrinklin' nothin', 's your responsibility now…"

"What're you doin', anyway…?"

"Showerin', I just wanted to try it on, make sure it still fit before goin' through the effort of _bathin'_,"

"Good Lord, I'm afraid I really _am_ rubbin' off on ya…"

"You _rub off_ alright—"

"Dirty, Lawrence," Sniper growls, Scout pressing himself against the man and taking a whiff of his thick brown hair. "Damn straight, bet your ass can't _wait_ to get me all dirty—Smells good, all spicy 'nd shit…"

"Washed it—'nd later, what d'you think the dinner's about…"

"I thought you were just takin' me out to be a good boyfriend…"

"Well—_technically_,"

"Or are you just tryin' to make our sex kosher?"

"Kosher? It'll never be _kosher_, Larry…" Sniper chuckles, slipping on black dresspants, tucking his white dress shirt into the waist.

"The fuck? 'S a nice suit, Snipes, where'd you get _that_ from?"

"Italy—'s Armani,"

"Italy?! When the fuck were you in Italy?"

"Four years ago—had a hit out there…"

"It looks brand new, though…"

"Might as well be—can't exactly think of a time I last needed a suit at _2Fort_,"

"Never thought I'd see the day when Jack was in an Armani suit; I thought you hated designer shit,"

"I do,"

"So then why are you wearin' it?!"

"I'm pullin' all the stops for you, love—I'm tellin' ya, y'look damn near edible in that thing, Luc'd prolly be proud over how good you look,"

"Uh, he'd prolly get _decked in the fuckin' mouth_ is more like it—I don't look nothin' like him," Scout snaps, though saying he did certainly wouldn't be anywhere within the realm of an insult; the Frenchman donned only the nicest suits, and even when missions called for his mask it did not take much to tell that underneath the neoprene balaclava resided an indisputably handsome profile.

"'Lright, 'lright, forget I said anythin'—now go bathe already, I don't want it t'get too late."

-

"Alright, now wombat," Scout begins with an air of seriousness, as if he were segueing from a particularly funny joke. His dark brown dress shoes (a few sizes too big for him as he had to borrow them from Sniper though the cut of his flattering slacks mask the discrepancy with ease) hoisted onto the dusty dashboard of the camper van that currently sits in late night, St. Louis traffic.

"_Damn it, she really overheats when we jus' stop 'nd go like this_—sorry love? You were sayin'?"

Scout takes a drag from the lit cigarette he pincers delicately in between the tips of his index and middle fingers, flicking the ash at the greyed ashtray that sit next to the bobblehead Scout was sure was permanently melted onto the top of the glove compartment. The window is cracked so the smoke does not soak into the fabric of their suits, however Sniper still seems put off by the young man's decision despite the cigarette he too smokes.

"Nothin' really, just that I got some rules," Scout mumbles, his chin nearly pressed against his chest in his slump.

"'Lright…" Sniper raises an eyebrow, his eyes still focused on the stop and go traffic however. "Shoot."

"First and foremost, nothin' on the menu is too expensive,"

"_Hey, now! Who said I was payin'?!"_"

"Seriously Snipes?! _Seriously_?! You didn't know the boyfriend was s'posed to pick up the check?!"

"You're a _boyfriend_ too, Lawrence—!"

"Yeah, but—but—"

"Y'ain't a bloody _girl_, love, you can pay for your own bloody meal!"

Sniper laughs darkly at Scout's blatantly agape mouth, the small orange flame on the end of the cigarette in his hand the only light save the streetlights overhead. He extends a hand to brush through Scout's combed hair and across his cheek, his face still fixed on the road.

"Only kiddin', 'course I'm pickin' it up—but don't try t'act _cute_ by orderin' the most expensive thing jus' 'cause y'can; get what y'want whether it's expensive or not, but don't make the expensive thing what y'want…"

"That don't make no sense,"

"It makes plenty o'sense, 's jus' that you haven't got any,"

"Hey, Fu—I mean, _screw you, Snipes_," Scout swallows, the two agreeing not to swear for the duration of the outing (Sniper didn't hold it to be very gentlemanly, despite expletives being a very integral part of their speech patterns).

"Well, whatever—second rule: we can only hold hands, and kisses ain't allowed to be deep or longer than three seconds 'til I'm dined and in the back of the camper ready for bed,"

"What the—._heck_—'s that s'posed t'mean?!"

"Well, your Ma's right; you shouldn't be tongue kissin' nobody if you ain't fed 'em yet, so it only makes sense you ain't allowed to touch me 'til you do,"

"Wasn't like I was plannin' on buggerin' on the dinner table…"

"Yeah well, you never know _what_ people are plannin' when they're acceptin' hand jobs under the kitchen table when Ma's makin' breakfast…"

"Y'keep bringin' it up like it wasn't _your_ idea; next thing I knew your hand was playin' with my zipper 'nd tuggin' on Jack Junior 'nd so I let y'play around 'til your heart was content,"

"_Uhhh_, I'm pretty sure _you_ were the one bein' all _content_, my hand was sticky for _hours_, it was soaked in your—"

"'_Kay_, love! No messin' around 'til the date's over—I can do that,"

"Alright, and the next rule,"

"Wossat…"

"I'm your _darlin'_,"

"The _bloody_ Heck's _that_ mean, Lawrence," Sniper sighs, Scout crushing the butt of his cigarette into the ash tray and looking about at Downtown St. Louis.

"It means I'm your everything," Scout grins, Sniper smiling himself in return; he'd say something along the lines of _y'already are_ if he were willing to take of the risk of reducing the two to vomiting shells of the dapper men they are now. The novelty of them being so _clean and fresh_ and the distinct lack of blood, sweat or come on their persons was all too much of a rarity worth spoiling on behalf of maudlin words.

"So how d'you feel 'bout jazz?"

"'S'alright I guess; I know you like that quiet, slow stuff…"

"S good music is what it _really_ is, love,"

"Why? You know a place?"

"I've toured the whole US, love—St. Louis is an old friend o'mine,"

"I was wonderin' how you knew your way around here so well—you haven't even looked at a map,"

"Y'learn t'get around without one when y'drive alone, y'can't drive 'nd read a map at the same time, right? Anyway, I know this real nice restaurant, they've got some great food, great atmosphere—nice 'nd smooth, quiet, relaxed…"

"How relaxed can a dude be in one of these things?! Seriously, I dunno how Luc does it…"

"He's a professional, love—we're jus' killers,"

Jack takes a particularly sharp turn down a smaller boulevard that causes the tires to squeal for a split second and Scout's frame to veer to the left, making the young man wish he had put on his seatbelt as Sniper had advised. The Australian seems to be on the same train of thought, for he shoots Scout a look to suggest that he too wishes Scout weren't so voluntarily reckless. Lawrence catches a deep whiff of the strong cologne the man had sprayed before setting off, tangy, subtle, yet sharp and somewhat overbearing nonetheless. He sprayed very little on himself, but it was certainly enough.

"You know my grandpa used to smell like that stuff you're wearin'; even at his dang _funeral_ he was sprayed with it,"

"Cute, corpse talk before dinner—though no offense 'gainst your late Gramps 'nd his tastes in cologne, but somethin' tells me they wouldn't have sent 'im to the grave smellin' like Isse Miyake,"

"_Dude_ you always said you _hated_ designer cologne, why do you have a whole bottle of it on top of your carton of cigarettes back there?!"

"I hate it, but every man's gotta present himself nice at some point, y'know? 'S just a standard; 's not the designer label I hate 's much as it is the people that place so much _worth_ on it,"

"Yeah, but you're totally fuelin' it by buyin' it 'nd wearin' the suit 'nd sprayin' the stuff,"

"I guess, but that's jus' life; maybe if I were fourteen I'd walk around, refusin' t'brush my teeth 'nd go t'school 'nd scream some drivel 'bout anarchy 'nd _fuelin' the system_, but as y'get older y'realise that things are the way they are,"

"You know you're a real bad hippie, Jack,"

"Hippie?! Where in the world did y'get the idea I was a hippie?!"

"You smoke, you're all into philosophy 'nd free speech 'nd stuff, you freakin' _love_ animals and even refused to hunt 'em when you were out in the Bush,"

"I only killed for protection, 's true—spent nice amounts o'time in different parts so I got t'know the ecosystems pretty well, so if I saw one group was really scrappin' on another, I'd take a few o'the aggressors out if it balanced the wildlife a bit; funny though, y'can't get me t'hurt an animal, but I put bullets in peoples' brains for a livin', 'nd that doesn't sound quite like it lines up with the hippie ideals," Sniper explains as he takes the keys out of the ignition, the van cooling as they finally stop in a sparsely occupied parking lot.

"Besides, I'm not all that big into _free love_,"

"What do you mean?" Scout asks, wide eyed and curious as Sniper opens the door and gives him a hand in stepping out of the van; he'd always loved listening to Sniper and his views of life and the world. Jack appeared so knowledgeable, and presented himself so matter of factly as if his thoughts were honed and chiseled through labourious experience, as if each opinion were crafted through a string of hard earned lessons. Anyone else and Scout would say they were talking out of their asses.

"I'm not sharin' ya with a bunch o'smelly, braless wankers; I love you 'nd you only. I'm all about lovin' your fellow man or whatever, but not orgies with 'em—keep up with me love, 's gettin' dark 'nd shady people come out," Sniper mumbles, pulling the young man to him and walking faster.

"You act like I don't kill people, Snipes,"

"I'd rather we get through t'night without havin' t'put our jobs into practice,"

"So then why're we walkin'? How far away is it?"

"Didn't wanna pay for valet parkin',"

"You cheap a—a—aaaa—_butt_—motherfu—fudgecake,"

"Y'had a point, y'can't take an Aussie camper van 'nd jus' hand the keys t'the parker while wearin an Armani suit with a straight face, specially not with the overheated engine, shoddy muffler, 'nd leakin' coolant…"

"You should listen to me more often," Scout smirks, taking the Australian's large hand into his.

"_Listen t'you more often_…"

"I listen to me,"

"'Nd look at where it's got you, in love with a madman, followin' 'im down a dark alley in the middle o'the night in a city y'know nothin' about…"

"So where're we goin'? What kinda place is this?" Scout asks with rising hesitation at Sniper's mumbled comment.

"You'll see…"

Scout is rather shocked at the lack of guards outside of the moderately towering parallelogram of a brick building Sniper eventually slows their walk in front of. He'd expected lines of people spewing from every direction of the street stumbling over their own feet in an attempt to stampede their way through golden doors, or spotlights to streak through the warm spring air and freckle the clear night sky with opaque ovals, their beams intense in their casting shine against the stratusphere.

Instead, he stands before the same brick building, equally as unimpressive now as it was twenty seconds ago. The red calligraphy of the fluorescent sign forms the words "The Pageant", which Scout presumes is the name of the restaurant proper. Though the lights don't flicker, Scout can hear the ionized vapor and its insipid speaking buzz coursing throughout the glass tube, resisting a strange but rather comforting urge to _touch_ the assuredly warm sign. Perhaps this isn't the place, Scout nods, satisfying his desire to busy his hands by brushing one against the cold mortar in between each brick, his finger wriggling against the uneven air pockets. Perhaps Sniper was simply standing here to collect his thoughts and remember where the location of the grandiose lounge was truly to be found. Scout's theory is negated, Sniper gripping the brass handle without any of the hesitation the Bostonian appears to possess. Leading him through another set of double doors, the sight that awaits the young man surprises him.


	22. The Dutchman's Record

His eyes take a generous handful of seconds to adjust from the dark to the light, and back to the dark as he notices the restaurant itself appears to hardly be anymore lit than the street outside. The young man steals a quick peek behind him, the dark red doors shut and stationary, not even budging to sway. Scout allows his eyes to focus beyond the coat check to their left and the hostess' booth a few feet before them, down exactly three uncarpeted concrete steps that lead to the restaurant proper. Black "u"s plague the Bostonian's vision in the shapes of loungy sofas and their few occupants, figures reclined against the fabric Lawrence presumptuously labels as velour in utter relaxation. Leedy rushes in funny ribbed pots freckle the lounge tastefully, and in between the the stalks of said rushes, the young man deciphers the outlines of a shadowy stage. A maze of mirrors bounces light across the room, and he grips Jack's hand tighter, who shares a few kind words with a thin woman. She quickly gestures toward the dining room.

"Careful now, love, 's a lot t'trip over if you're not too watchful," Jack grunts right as the addressed stumbles over a chair in the gloom; The mirrors catch his attention, thus leaving room for such graceless trips and tumbles. Their bluish white ambience illuminates dust motes fluttering about, giving the impression of a very ancient intelligence coming forward to share its brilliance. The mirrors throw light back and forth clear over his head, like an eerie game of monkey in the middle. It all wrapped up to be a subdued, psychedelic display.

"Dude this is some weird light..."

Blocking his eyes from the cold glare, he focuses on the powerful spot lamp, the true origin of the mirror's mystical display. He looks forward and narrowly avoids hitting his thigh on another table. "Try not t'make too much of a spectacle o'yourself_before_ we actually get seated."

The tables themselves are almost invisible against the cave like (though very, very well fitting) darkness of the club itself, the plain, circulatory surfaces painted black and ornamented with one single paper candle in the middle. "This is a pretty fancy place, Jack! I gotta admit, when we were outside just walkin' around and whatever I wasn't all that sure, but nah—it's pretty nice."

Jack smiles, nicking his head and giving Scout a jumpstart. He tugs gently on Lawrence's hand, weaving him about until finding a nice table next to curtained window, whose thick wooden blinds blocks any view onto the street parallel to them. Located somewhere mixed between modestly private though involved with the bustle of the rest of the diners, Sniper pulls the young man's chair back, Lawrence actually double taking slightly as the courteous gesture nearly goes past him unnoticed. He mouths the man a soft but firm "thank you", wasting no time in sticking a hand out to grip onto the tea lamp in the center.

"Careful, love, don't catch fire t'your sleeve, now…"

The candleholders, he gathers from studying those at the surrounding tables before glancing back at their own, were all different, and some of the strangest he'd ever seen; just based on those around them he saw red, snarling, wood carved lions with twisted fangs with purely silver paws, rising claws up, yawning beastly worms of medieval legends. Others were adorned with heavy pewter bases supporting puddles of what appeared to be the stillest mercury. "That's kinda cheap though, ain't it? Some of the tables just got plastic cups as holders," Scout comments with such negativity as if suggesting he were a direct victim of curios-oriented neglection.

"Management prolly couldn't afford t'replace 'em all after little mongrels like _you_ come in right after the other, touchin' all over it 'nd shatterin' 'em on the floor…"

Lawrence sticks his tongue out briefly at the man, cross eyed ever still as he twists the warm pewter about in his hands, scrutinizing the etch work and watching the small, golden white flame flicker sporadically as his calm breath fans over it in wispy waves. "How old do ya think this thing is, Jack?"

"Hmm, dunno, I'm not an expert in restaurant décor,"

"'Cause it's pretty gaudy, you know? Like somethin' Ma would have on that tacky old cherry desk she's _still_ got in the livin' room…you'd think she woulda tossed that thing out back in the fifties or somethin',"

"'The candleholder's not _that_ bad, now, it at _least_ looks like it's from this decade—no offense," the Australian adds quickly; it wouldn't have surprised him if Scout had started at the mere insinuation that his darling mother had a noticeably unorthodox taste in decorating, even for a man like Jack for whom stylishly furnishing the camper was the farthest thing from a priority.

"Alright then, you've been here before; so what's the scoop?" Scout asks brightly.

"The scoop?"

"Yeah, like, what should I order?"

"Well, last time I was here I guess y'could say I wasn't quite in a right state—Hell, I'm tryin' t'remember if I ordered food t'begin with,"

"Oh, lemmie _guess_, you were here with one of your ex _boyfriends_ or somethin'..." Scout snaps with distasteful jealously, glaring briefly at the older man before bringing the menu to his face once more, covering his grumpled expression.

"Hmph—_no_..." Jack huffs, sighing quickly and quietly before drumming his fingers on the table. "Try I was trippin' off my _mind_by myself 'nd came _stumblin'_ in here 'nd crashed on that couch over there for four hours straight 'til management finally took notice 'nd threw my arse outside,"

"Jack, that's..." Lawrence mutters worriedly, swallowing heavily and swiping a hand through his hair before looking the man he found a bit too casual in regards to his drug stories. "So then you mean your ass was drivin' all wired on shit, and you came in here hallucinatin' and just sat on that couch and got thrown out,"

"Well, I'd snorted a bit o'phencyclidine, 'nd I imagine it was laced with somethin', right? Whatever it was—I recon a little coke—was makin' me right weird. So yeah, stumbled in, made m'self nice 'nd comfortable right there, front o'the stage, droolin' 'nd not quite able t'figure out whether the people performin' that night were ever actually there or not—'nd I'll tell ya I _still_ don't know,"

"That's bad, wombat," Scout whispers, falling against his chair and casting the man a reproachfully worried glare from the corner of his eye. "What were you snortin' for, Jack?"

"Different times, love, don't get so down, okay?" the man insists regretfully, bringing his fingers to tap absentmindedly against his own menu. "I don't do those things anymore, I know they scare ya,"

"I get worried about you when you do that shit..."

"Well in any case I jus' remember sittin' there, lookin' up at the stage, 'nd tellin' myself that I'd come back t'the place in a better state o'mind with someone special,"

"So then, that's me?"

"Well that's my story," Jack clears his throat as a woman approaches the table, plucking a small notebook from her black apron pocket, the motion an official end to the previous conversation, even if Scout had preferred a bit more time to further express his sentiments on the matter of the Australian's drug usage.

"Evenin',"

Jack's captivating, warm, dapper smile, equal parts a charm of utter enchantment, was a curse welling within the young Scout; an ungodly jealousy triggered only by the fact those grey eyes and handsome grin were not directed upon him alone, upon him, in this instance, at all. Instead Jack intends to entertain a young woman by the name of Katherine, Scout observes by the name tag placed upon her left breast, her hair large and blonde, poofed up top and reminding him of a sand coloured seashell.

The young man grimaces as she extends a manicured hand to place two paper wrapped straws gently on the table, flashing Jack a politely playful smile in return for his gentlemanly chivalry. So preoccupied by the man's roguishly dapper display, Katherine misses entirely the way Scout's scrunched up lips scowl at her every motion. His eyes fix onto her with such accuracy one would assume a magnetism strung between her figure and his narrowed oculars.

"Well hey there, boys," she grins, setting thin, cork coasters in front of each of them, Lawrence resisting the urge to toss his at her feet, only for it to be crushed underneath a prim black flat. "So what can I get cha started off with toni—?"

"Yeah I'd just like a water if that's alright, and the pasta—with the white vuna-grett-sauce or whatever it's called, and that's it—ain't no other reason for you to keep comin' back over here," Lawrence begins shortly, tossing the woman his menu moodily and crossing his arms across his chest.

"_Larry…_" Jack sighs, slipping a hand under the table and grabbing the Bostonian's and rubbing it softly. He flashes Scout silent and rather stony glare from across the table, his eyes affectionately sympathetic nonetheless. "I—I'm sorry, Miss," Jack clears his throat, leaning closer to the young man as he consciously brings his voice to a whisper.

"Did y'even look at the menu, love…?"

"_I don't need to—_" the young man huffs, folding his arms and casting the admittedly calm woman a filthy glare. "Larry, sweetie…" Jack grumbles, holding back a particularly harsh eye roll, surprising even himself as he does so. "Don't be ridiculous, love—c'mon, let's take a look…" he breathes heavily through his nose as he folds open the leather bound placard, pushing it gently to the settling Scout, whose eyes scan the different portions available in calm registration of his options.

"_See, you've got the braised pork, blackened tilapia—you can even get yourself a nice steak 'nd lobster it looks like…_"

The waitress watches them in silent shock and even _uncomfortable_ patience as the two men allow themselves a solid minute to go over the menu in hushed voices together. Scout shrugs unargumentatively before confirming his decision to stick with the pasta dish after all, Jack giving the waitress a quick nod.

"'Lright, 's what he wants…"

"And—and what'll you have, sir…" the waitress laughs nervously, clearly trying to leave the two men to deal with themselves without making it obvious she finds their dynamic to be the strangest she'd ever encountered.

"Oi—dunno, th'baked chicken 'nd side salad looks 'bout right…"

"Sorry?" Katherine stumbles slightly, resting a hand against the edge of the table—a hand Scout's vision latches onto very quickly…

"I didn't quite catch that,"

"Oh—right—the accent—er, the _Baked parmesan oregano whatsit that comes with the salad on the side_," the man annunciates, closing his menu and taking his (and Lawrence's) into his hands and handing them cordially to their server.

Scout must scrutinize the Australian somewhat disbelievingly, disgusted by the unorthodox combination of curdled cheese and sweet, pungent herb, wondering to himself how the man possibly sought to stomach it—or moreover, how he intended to_pay_ for it. Perhaps it was simply Scout's personal history coming to speak for his own inability to grasp the incredulous thought of the man's choice, his allowance to accept full responsibility of the bill that was eventually to come at the end of their meal. The Bostonian saw the date with a perspective of a child of poverty; one who had never properly weaned himself from the bosom of welfare benefits, even as an adult.

The pasta drenched liberally in _white wines_ he himself ordered had never once been a meal served under Julie's household. Then again, when Christopher had grown old enough to expend dollars so loosely on equally uncommon mixtures of tastes and aromas, Lawrence found his tastes presented themselves as not foods but _delicacies_. Thanks to his brother, Lawrence had been somewhat familiarized early on with entrees created, served, and indulged upon not for the sake of satisfying any one taste, but rather the gratification of the rich mind's ego.

"…and you're _sure_ that's all you want? Just the salad, no dressing?" Scout tunes in just in time to hear the young woman chirrup at the nodding Australian, whose shaven jaw spreads once more into one of his charming smiles.

"Dinky di, Miss—not a drop o'dressin' if it's not too much," he grins, the woman laughing lightly behind her hand.

"Dinky _what_?! Don't think I've ever heard that phrase 'round here…"

"In this case, 's Aussie for _I'm sure_,"

"Australia, huh? I knew you were too cute to be an American…" she sighs loftily, tucking the menus under her arms. "Well I'll get out of your way, sirs…" she grins before ambling off toward the kitchen to place their orders.

"…More like 's Aussie for _I'm a freakin' tool_!"

"Oh, here we go…"

"Here we _nothin'_, Jack; come on, what was _that_ just now?! Seriously! I'm tired of goin' out in public with ya and havin' all these silly girls trying to—to—"

"_What, do their jobs_?! Sorry if the dancer I hired for _your_ sake a week ago was tryin' t'entertain her manly customers like we were _payin'_ her to!"

"Right well, the waitress at the restaurant ain't a dancer, Jack—then again with the way she's actin' it ain't like you can tell—"

"She's not actin' like _anythin'_, she's just bein' friendly!"

"Yeah well, a little _too_ friendly if you ask me," Scout snarls, throwing his head back to glare at the woman who assists another group of diners some tables away.

"What' your _problem_, love—?!"

"My _problem_ is that I didn't come here to watch you flirt with some chick you just met!"

"Flirt?! Larry, she was just takin' our orders, gremlin—'s no need t'lose your marbles 'nd have one o'your moments, ok?!"

"Moments?! What do you mean _moments_?!"

"Your—_issue moments_…"

"_Issues moment_?!"

"Your Mum told me about your little, er—_disorder_…"

"Yeah, what about it?!" Scout snaps defensively, clearly not wanting to elaborate.

"Well, I know things can be hard for you t'process sometimes, that y'don't quite see things 'nd actions 'nd situations with the same perspective as others—she said you've been strugglin' with all sorts o'emotional disorders —"

"Do we _really gotta bring this up now, Jack?!_ I don't wanna talk about it," he adds shamefully

"Larry I'm not sayin' this t'blame ya or get ya all riled up, I simply mean that I think you may be lookin' at this whole thing a little skewed because you're a little special, eh?"

"_Special,_" Scout snaps glaring at the man in utter disgust. "So then you think I'm _dumb_ or somethin'—?!"

"Larry—_no, 's not what I meant!_ I didn't mean _special_, jus' that you've clearly got a condition that causes ya t'maybe _blow things outta proportion a little bit…_"

"Just 'cause I got a problem that doesn't mean I'm _stupid_,"

"I never implied you were, Larry—"

"And I ain't so stupid to not notice no flirtin' when I see it!"

"_Who's flirtin' here, Larry_?!" Jack snaps at the grimacing Bostonian, who narrows his eyes but remains watchful of the Australian's thin lips. "Huh?!"

"Maybe _you're_ the dumb one, Jack—_I knew you were too cute to be an American_—if that ain't an attempt to do ya on the table then I dunno what is,"

"Oi, what the broad says ain't my fault, Lawrence—"

"Yeah well, why do ya always gotta—!" Scout glowers as he dramatically imitates the man's accent, scoffing and casting him a dirty eye.

"Gotta what, mate? Look, 's whole thing's hardly anythin' t'be jealous over, in case you forgot I'm here with you right now because I love _you_, not some dame! 'nd because I want more than anythin' for us t'have a beautiful night t'gether for a change— the waitress whose name I've already forgotten doesn't mean a thing t'me, 's all about you— _'s always_ about you t'me, okay?"

Scout sighs, but the soft hand that snakes its delicately maudlin way about his cheek and neck is nothing he can ignore, even if his silence attempts to say otherwise. "I jus' wish sometime's you'd stop 'nd really give it some thought how much you mean t'me…" Jack sighs, falling back against his chair in defeat, picking up the wrapped cutlery and twirling it absentmindedly in his fingers. Larry too exhales, glancing nebbishly up at the Australian, watching him heavily as the man still seeks entertainment from the perfectly glistening eating utensils.

"...cheer up, Jack…" Scout whispers, Sniper smirking, his eyes still on the twirling fork he focuses on. "This _is_ a nice night. I love it…I love _you_..." he adds apologetically.

"I got out the van 'nd am interactin' with people,"

"I _know_—it's weird bein' with you out of it," Scout chuckles.

"I'm tryin' t'be a gentleman—_your_ gentleman. So let's make this a special night 'nd get the suspicion out your eyes—'s a shame to see such pretty blue ones like yours all bogged down in jealousy…"

"Like mine, huh?" Scout smirks.

"Hm—maybe," Jack grins, and the waitress returns with two frosty glasses in her hand, placing chilled water in front of the Bostonian and a contrastingly steamy ceramic cup of smooth, frothing black tea in front of his Australian counterpart.

"You always gotta get the tea…" Scout notes, letting his head crook a little to the side on the edge of his neck. He quietly watches the man pull on the water soaked string of the soppy teabag with uncharacteristically clean nails and cuticles, placing it gently onto the saucer supporting the beverage as a whole. "What's it even taste like?!" Scout asks quietly, dragging the cup to himself and shaking his fingers as the warmth catches him by surprise, the quarry of unsweetened liquid swishing along the edges of the mug and forming lukewarm brines of leafy wetness against the surface of the smooth table, appearing transparent as they dry due to its hue.

"I try t'get ya t'taste it all the time back in the camper, but _no_ 's soon as y'see me with it out in public y'wanna slobber all over it,"

"Slobber?! I ain't slobberin'," Scout hesitates to bring the scalding drink to his sensitive lips, daring forward however and taking the a quick, noisy slurp before setting it back down and grimacing instantly and pushing it away.

"I said it was hot…"

"Nah, it just ain't even _sweetened_,"

"Y'know I never dump that silliness in my drinks—I prefer it the natural way…"

"Yeah well, here I was thinkin' maybe bein' in a restaurant it woulda tasted better,"

"'Nd did it?"

"No," the young man grumbles, taking a generous sip of his icy water.

"'S funny, I mean—considerin' the tea I've got back at the camper's nice, natural, fair trade leaves, it shouldn't come as much of a surprise that the stuff they're servin' ya here isn't quite up t'par,"

"The _natural_ stuff tastes bad too," Scout argues, twirling the tip of his straw so it clings against the frored glass, remarking at how it all resembles a delicate, subtle song. "Tastes like how your armpits smell, when you don't wear deodorant,"

"Oooo _yum_," Jack chuckles, bringing his arm to his nostril and taking a soft whiff. "Then I s'pose I could find a way to capture the natural smell 'nd turn _that_ into a teabag, eh? Sell it 'nd maybe make us some extra cash,"

He laughs at Scout's mortified expression, the young man shaking his head before twirling at the bed of ice melting in the bottom of his cup. "Money you _should_ use to buy yourself some deodorant…"

"Oi, I _got_ some, I'm just not all too int' _usin'_ it…"

"You know my grandma would kill ya,"

"Hm—'s always nice t'hear…"

"Or maybe she'd kill me first—I dunno…"

"Might I ask _why_ your granny would want my head?" Sniper asks calmly, Scout emitting a soft sigh and leaning back in his chair, tapping lightly at his chin.

"Alright, lemmie start with this; you got any Irish blood or relatives in ya?"

"Hm, if we do, they're not too vocal or invested in the heritage—I mean, the whole o'my family's been in Australia for at _least_a century 'nd a half, I rekcon they even were amongst the original prisoners who were banished here,"

"So then you _are_ English,"

"No, I'm Australian, born 'nd raised, so was my family. My ancestors were amongst the first ones t'settle there,"

"Yeah, but you ain't _Aboriginal_, the white boy had to come from _somewhere_,"

"Well my family's been in Aussieland since it was first colonized by Europeans—I guess my Great Great Great Great whatevers were English or somethin', since they were the ones really claimin' the island—"

"_AND THEN YOU GET ALL MAD WHEN I CALL YOU BRITISH_!"

"But I'm _not_ British!"

"Yeah, but it don't matter 'cause Australians are just British people that've been on the bottom of the Earth for too long,"

"Fine, then you Irishmen 're nothin' but funny talkin' Scots,"

"See? That's the kinda stuff Grandma would kill ya for,"

"Well all I'm sayin' is that there's a difference between heritage 'nd _nationality_. Let's put it this way; you're not Irish jus' 'cause you've got Irish blood in ya,"

"Yeah I am, I'm one hundred percent Irish on both sides of my family, Jack!"

"But you're not _Irish_ 'cause you were neither born there, nor were you raised in Ireland! Y'didn't grow up Irish, y'can't identify with it!"

"Dude, my dad _was_ Irish, he was born there!"

"What?"

"Yeah, and Ma's parents were from there, too! Both sets of my grandparents were from Ireland, and my Dad actually _moved_here when he was like, eighteen or somethin',"

"'Nd your Mum?"

"Yeah, she was born here, but she speaks Gaelic, you know," Scout adds proudly, the two men beaming as Katherine places their meals in front of them quietly, the young man wasting no time in digging into his food and chomping away though very raucously, he managed to do so with his mouth closed at the very least. Slurping the pasta and fluttering his eyelashes pleasantly, Sniper can only assume the young man enjoys his meal at the very least.

"Did y'remember, the…?" Sniper whispers in to the ear of the rosy faced waitress, who gasps before nodding and setting off again. "Right," he clears his throat, Scout looking up from his plate attentively.

"'S funny, your Mum's got that pitch black hair,"

"She _dyes_ it, it's actually a light brown like mine,"

"Oh…"

"Yup,"

"I mean, 'lright, you're 's Irish as can _be_, but you're still not _Irish_, you're American; you were born 'nd raised here, speak American English, 'nd identify with American culture,"

"…nah, I can see that…" Scout nods thoughtfully in between a large chomp of linguine, shrugging and, in wake of the close to which the debate descends, he finds his back loosening and his posture comfortable against the back of the cushioned chair once more. "I see where you're comin' from…"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, 's real interestin' that you've got such, a, well, _rich_ Irish heritage; I don't have any livin' English relatives, let alone two sets o'grandparents 'nd even a biological parent," Sniper adds, careful to avoid insinuating that the young man "had" a _father_. He stabs a cluster of kale greens from off the ceramic of the cool, mosaic patterned bowl which contains his salad, chewing modestly as Scout nods in reference to the older man's statement.

"I mean, _yeah_, dad had his accent and everything," Scout recounts with a light smile, cupping his empty glass smally. "Will and Roy used to make fun of me 'cause when I was younger I had a bit of it, too; we _all_ did, though…"

"So then he came with his parents in the mid Twenties? Guess it woulda been hard for him t'lose it either way,"

"Yeah, they came through Ellis Island; apparently my Grandpa and Grandma intended to live in one of the Burroughs of New York or whatever, but, well…."

"Well what?"

"Let's just say my Grandpa went to the _grave_ hatin' Jews," Scout mumbles under the cover of a nebbish, lowered voice, darting his eyes to the floor before taking a breath and deciding to continue further. "And I'm pretty sure you know the deal with _New York_; 's just a bunch o' immigrants barely makin' it, barely speakin' English, and they're all just festerin' around and hatin' each other. Well, in the City, neighbourhoods turn over fast; and like Hell if they ever mix with each other. An Irish neighbourhood could turn Italian could turn Polish could turn _Chinese_, but then when it would get taken over, whoever was there last would just move to another part of the city instead of tryin' to get along. 'S just how it goes. And the Jews? It's sad, it's wrong, but _no one_ liked 'em. Some groups would kinda band together, you know? Like maybe Germans with Swedes or Italians with Spaniards or whatever. Dunno why, maybe they learned that makin' a friendship _somewhere_ was the only way they could keep goin', stay strong. But no matter what it was always _them_ against the _Jews_,"

"Doesn't quite seem _right_, I mean, apart from the fact 's just _silly_ anyway, you'd think a hodgepodge o'immigrants would be bandin' t'gether t'live the dream 'nd not start race wars in the streets,"

"Yeah, but you gotta remember Jack, these were all sorts o'groups of people comin', all thinkin' their way's the best; _their_food, _their_ culture, _their_ language,"

"Sure,"

"So when you got poor, uneducated laborers just workin', 'sweatin', and hatin', there ain't gonna be a lotta people tryin' to change peoples' minds and tell 'em to love each other,"

"I guess, but it still doesn't make any sense; I mean, I'm familiar with the anti-Semitism that went on back then but, er, the Irish Catholics were right on the same tier, eh? No one wanted the Irish Catholic _or_ the Jew 's their neighbour; no offense,"

"I ain't disagreein', but I imagine it made my folks feel better about whatever, thinkin' that as long as they was hatin' on someone they was still a part of the chain; every group had another that wanted 'em out, 'cept Jews and Irishmen were hated by _everybody_ like you said…"

"Y'sure do know a lot about it for someone who was never there…"

"Well, I've heard stories, and never _good ones_. So anyway, my Dad and Grandpa were workin' in some mills or some shit, and like father like son—I don't blame my Dad, he was only mimickin' what he'd seen from his parents, but…"

_'Of course y'don't blame him…'_ Sniper muses, the young man, he wagered, even able to excuse his own father of murder if such an action were to come into question.

"The two would get into it with Jews, and start full blown fights in the street—my Dad was young though, probably pissed and angry the whole world was hatin' on _him_, 's like a cycle, Jack, you hate 'cause it's all you see; but the KKK was real big around that time too, and they hated Jews and Irish Catholics more than the _blacks_, I'd wager,"

"…Oi, where's this goin'…"

"My Grandpa got into some shit with 'em; ended up takin' what little money they'd managed to save and take the first train north to Boston they could. He claimed it was 'cause he couldn't stand livin' near Jews, but I got a feelin' it's 'cause the KKK was threatenin' him and Dad, for real. They left behind _everything_—not that there wasn't nothin' to take, but I mean, come on, it made sense, right? Boston was _all_ Irish Catholic, it made sense that they'd try to make their way up there, huh? No KKK, no Jews, just people that looked and sounded like them,"

"Yeah, 'course…"

"So yeah, they made it there or whatever, settled right in; 'cept this time they were workin' docks and wharfs and shit, and my Dad met my Ma 'cause she was always down there with her girlfriends flirtin' with the sailors and stuff; I dunno, that's pretty much it, my Grandad told us a lot of those stories, back when him and Grandma were still alive…"

"When did he pass, love?"

"Was about, I dunno, maybe ten years ago? Didn't matter anyway, he moved back down to New York with my Grandma so I didn't see 'em too much anyway; for some reason Ma wouldn't let us visit so, I mean, we didn't lose _complete contact_ or nothin', but the last time I got to see 'im was in a casket smellin' like your cologne,"

"Well, I don't wanna come too harsh on your Grandad, but perhaps 's better if the man was spewin' hate speech all over the place; I'm sure your Mum didn't want her boys bein' influenced by that sort o'attitude,"

"You know when I was a kid I wasn't really noticin' it for real; it wasn't like I had any friends and I went to an all white school, you know? Even then I was in a stupid _special class_ with slow kids 'cause I would act up, even though I was smart. But there was this _one_ time, where it was just me and him, right? He took me to the park, me and Grandpa—he was talkin' 'bout 1943, the year I was born—and how the only thing goin' on at the time was disease and Nazis. And he turned to me and said, _'the only thing I hate more than a Jew or a Nigger is a Kraut,'_"

"_Lawrence_!"

"I'm just repeatin' what he said!" Scout hiccups, though reddening and taking the moment to take another bite of food.

"'S there anyone that man _didn't_ hate?!"

"Irish Catholics—my Dad was just as bad—if he knew, about Doc, or Mikhail, or Tavish, my as—_butt_, it would be on the line, Jack…"

"Oi, 's a terrible thing t'say; so y'mean he would beat ya a new one if he knew Heinrich is German, Mikhail's Jewish, 'nd Tavish is Black?"

"And that you were gay, yeah, but—I don't blame him, Jack, he grew up with that hate, he didn't know no better,"

"Well your _Mum_ seemed clear about makin' sure you boys grew up knowin' that sort o'nonsense was wrong,"

"Yeah, but, they didn't talk politics, you know? I know it was wrong what they were sayin', and it was the first time I'd stopped and really _thought_ about the sort of stuff my Dad and Grandpa were teachin' me, you know? He said the war should have gone on until they wiped each other out, and I remember cryin' for some reason; I don't know why, but I just started cryin' after he said that. Maybe 'cause he said it in this real angry tone, and I felt like I had done somethin' wrong, 'cause of the sound of his voice. But he told me that as long as I grew up and got with an Irish Catholic chick, he'd still have a reason to call me a _grandson_,"

"Lawrence, that's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard," Jack growls, Scout nodding and placing a hand on his full stomach, the empty pasta bowl visual proof of the young man's enjoyment of the meal. "Yeah…" he sighs, and they sit quietly for a few moments, leaving Sniper to finish off his own food in moderate discomfort. "But that's life, you know? Dude Alex hated him, he didn't even go to his funeral,"

Sniper stops himself from physically uttering a booming, aggressive _"Good!"_ in response, though he halts himself and instead clears his throat loudly, shoving his empty bowl to the side and starting instead on his chicken. "So, uh, what about your Mum's parents?" Jack asks with renewed fervor, Scout smirking a bit before raising his eyebrows quickly. "Remember how I said my grandma would like, kill ya?"

"How could I forget…?"

"Well, her and Grandpa were a lot nicer than Dad's side, but they were also kinda like, Catholic,"

"Oi,"

"_Irish_ Catholic,"

"Weren't your other grandparents?"

"Well _yeah_, but it was more about the heritage with them; Ma's side was _waaay_ more religious; you'd _never_ hear them hatin' on other people or races like the Fitzpatricks. Naw, the Mathers were nicer,"

"Mathers?"

"Ma's side,"

"'Kay,"

"I mean, they weren't invitin' Protestants to move in next door, but if I brought a Black or Polish friend over for dinner they wouldn't be bad about it at all,"

"They already sound leagues nicer—"

"They don't like _weird_ stuff and they don't like gays…" Larry begins, Jack clearing his throat nodding softly. "I see."

"Yeah, but—that ain't why she'd kill ya, she'd just—you know, _fair trade, organic tea_—she thinks that sorta stuff is un-American, un-Christian, un-Catholic,"

"Y'mean eatin' _healthy_ is un-Christian in her eyes? I seem t'remember the Bible actually _promotin'_ a clean diet…"

"She also thinks you're gonna go to Hell if you don't go to church _every single Sunday_—there was this one year where I was in bed all winter with Pneumonia, right?! Well yeah, I couldn't move and Ma even had a doctor over 'cause I was actually_dyin'_—and I couldn't get to church that weekend. Now Grandma was a real nice lady, right? I loved her to death. We all did, really, and when she'd visit it was still a treat, 'cause she was _old_. She lived on the other side of Boston and it was just as hard for her and Grandpa to get on the bus 'cause of their old peopleness, just like Ma could rarely ever afford for all eight of us to ride—Luc was gone somewhere, prolly _France or some shit_,"

"Y'know he was over there 'cause o'work, right? That he could never give any o'you guys details 'cause it breached his contract?"

"Yeah _sure_, like he wasn't on _holiday_, but screw him—anyway when she came over it was always _amazing_. Dad's Mom and Dad moved back to New York shortly after he left, like I said, so seein' Mom's folks was always awesome and stuff. But the day she came to visit me on my freakin' _death bed_ was like somethin' outta a Frankenstein movie,"

"Why's that, love?"

"Dude, okay, so this lady," Scout chuckles, the memory obviously resurfacing from his subconscious with a hint of humourous recountance. "Grandma…" he chuckles once more, busying himself so profusely with a hibiscus flower display on the window sil he misses completely as the waitress returns to their table to set down a tall, nearly black bottle of finely aged wine—a rich bottle of _Casella_, a gourmet Australian brand dating back to what appeared to be 1853, though the smokey, crumbled, and ancient parchment and faded, washed away ink makes reading the label for accuracy a folly. Scout sneezes as Sniper brushes a hand across the smooth, antiquated glass, gripping the wine opener along with two generously sized glasses the woman hands him before slipping away again, the Australian bringing a secretive finger to his lips.

"It was winter, right? And this woman came in like—dude, I _swear_, I was thirteen years old and this woman looked like the_Reaper_. She was wearin' these dark shawls, 'cause you know, you're supposed to wear dark colours when it's cold and stuff. Jack, her dress was _black_ and wet 'cause she'd been in the snow. And she had a real thick black headscarf goin' with her shawl. The shawl looked like a blanket or somethin', like somethin' she stitched. And here she comes—she had grey hair like_straw_—here she comes, hobblin' up the steps and creakin' the floor—'cause this was before Ma got the carpet installed, she didn't do that 'til '57. She comes in my room lookin' like _Death_ Jack. I swear. You know Wagner, right? Like the composer?"

"'Course…"

"You know the song he wrote for the Faust Overture?"

**(A/N: If you haven't heard the song, this is what it is: watch?v=-VcPyK-SSfQ )**

"I'm surprised _you do_,"

"Ma had a record she played all the time—that song gave me the freakin' _creeps_, and I swear I heard it when she came in through the door,"

"Well your Mum prolly had it on, love…"

"Dude, it didn't matter, 'cause_normally_ when Grandma visits it was excitin'. But nah, the lights weren't on, this creepy as fu—_fudge_ old German stuff was playin' and I'm shiverin' and dyin' and my brothers are holed up in the livin' room. I shared a room with Will, Roy, and Paul 'cause we had three bedrooms—you saw how it was set up—but they was all sleepin' in Anthony's, Chris' and Alex's room 'cause I was infectin' _our_ room. But here she was, right? Hobblin' like I freakin' said. She just_watched_ me, dude. She stood at the edge of my bed and was watchin' me wheezin' 'n stuff. Grandma wasn't fun _that_ time. She just stood there for like, five minutes, then she walked out and closed the door. And my room was all cold, and the radiator was freakin' _busted_ but I was overheatin', so I wasn't under the blankets. Next thing I hear? Dude, she's in the livin' room yellin' at Ma—her daughter—'cause I wasn't gonna go to church the next day,"

"Come off it!"

"Nah, I'm serious!" Scout barks, leaning forward, the story telling so intense for the young man he actually leans forward with passion as an excitement within him encourages the momentum.

"You're _dyin'_ 'nd breakin' a sweat 'n a freezin' cold room 'nd your Grandmum banishes y'to _Hell_,"

"I wish I were makin' this up, Jack,"

"The Bible places importance on church, yeah, 'course! There's power in fellowship, but it never once says you'll go t'Hell for not attending!"

"It doesn't?"

"_No_!" Jack scoffs. "'Nd it was wrong o'her t'scare a young boy into believin' it! Either she knew 'nd jus' tried scarin' your lot into goin' every Sunday, or she doesn't even know about the religion she's so devout to…"

"Well how do you know so much? Scout asks curiously, taking no notice to the loud _Pop_ of the cork expelling from the bottle, relinquishing its title of stopper and allowing the man to pour them both man a glass of the tart alcohol, swiveling it as per customary expectancy. "_ooo, 's right ripe, that is…_"

"And what's that?" Scout nods as the man takes a prim sip before smacking his lips pleasantly.

"'S a nice old wine I thought I'd treat y'to,"

"Wine? You mean like, real, expensive wine?"

"'Course, 's so hard t'believe about that?"

"I dunno, I guess—I guess I just saw myself like, never sittin' in a restaurant with you sippin' on old wine, you know? I feel like a king or somethin',"

"Hmph—'nd _not_ like you're lookin' death in the eye?" Sniper chuckles deeply, reveling the feel of the warm, fermented juice and its downward travel down his esophagus, heating his insides with an intoxicating burn like mercuric, plum shaded molasses were pooling in the bottom of his stomach, heating the rounded organ like a stony hearth.

"Oh my _God_, Jack, I swear I'll never forget it—_jeeze_," Scout sputters, having taken too much of a sip at once. His eyelids flutter as the intensity of the wine temporarily clouds his chest, misty and gaseous as the burn slowly pulls back on its ruthless stifling of his senses. "It was like somethin' outta Dickens…"

"Dickens didn't write Frankenstein, Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein,"

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Scholar," Scout slurs, taking another strong gulp of the juice, going even so far as to tilt his head back.

"Don't _chug_ it, love, have some class…"

Scout smirks, before positioning his hands much like royalty going to grab the handle a teacup with only the nail of their finely groomed pinky, though he bursts into a fit of his usual laughter at Sniper's bemused though bewildered expression.

"Either way, you've got a right interestin' Grandmum," Jack smiles, Scout nodding before chuckling once more. "I got some_weird_ family, wombat…" Scout shakes his head, the Australian sighing before patting him on the leg underneath the table. "Well even still you've got six amazin' brothers 'nd a beautiful, wonderful mother, 'nd no matter what, love, you've always got me," Jack grins, Scout rolling his eyes but mouthing a thank you to the man nonetheless.

"And I mean, comin' out here is the first time I really got to know people from different countries, who spoke different languages and were clearly like, _different_—Luc has an accent or whatever, but he's been here so long, he's pretty much an American, you know? But you guys are like…"

"What?" Jack beams, noticing the young man's dilating pupils as he too finishes his first glass along with Sniper.

"I dunno. Don't get me _wrong_, I'm freakin' _proud_ of my heritage, and I _love_ Boston, but I guess it ain't never really hit me I was just surrounded by the same ol' people up there until meetin' all of you—even the ones out to kill me…" the young man chuckles, holding out his glass as Jack treats him to yet another dousing, his wrist tipped lightly, though careful in its inclination.

"Same people?"

"Just, you know, it ain't like you get much variety up there, it ain't exactly all that welcome…"

"'Nd y'know, it's funny y'say that…"

"Mhm…" Scout nods attentively, slouching on his wrist and allowing himself to fall into a comfortable stupor ideal for listening to the man with leisure, taking the full wine glass into his hand absentmindedly, though not yet sipping from it.

"'S just a product o'the times, all that xenophobia, eh? I mean, y'gotta look at it this way; a lot o'old blood resides in Boston. Generations o'the same families, all interactin' in one little town that eventually grew _city_ I reckon your lot knows a lot o'others around town despite its size, eh? When you're all so nestled like that, y'don't see the need t'move or for others t'move 'nd establish themselves as residents, not if they hadn't been around for a while themselves. 'Nd while I can't I felt the _most_ welcome in Little Ireland—"

"Not welcome? What—what do you mean, Jack?"

"Aw, 's nothin', love, I didn't sense the vibe at all from your folks or anythin', 's jus' I really get the feelin' ole Boston likes her archetype like y'said; like if y'aren't a Gallagher, Murphy, or O'Brien, y'don't have much business there,"

"No one messed with ya, did they? Jack, why didn't you tell me?!"

"No, but I could tell I wasn't the jewel o'the city, what with bein' 'n Aussie 'nd _not_ from the land o'Eire," the man takes a break in his grave dialogue to take a generous sip of the cool, concord concoction, the insides of his fleshy cheeks shriveling and reacting as the bitter liquid washes in between his tongue, teeth, and the back of his throat, the man gasping slightly but patting his chest in ultimate approval, his lips stained a sweet, puce hue. "'S a beautiful city 'nd it was wonderful sharin' it with ya, love, but I can tell 's not meant for me, 'nd that she'd rather keep it that way…"

"Sorry, Jack…"

"'S not your fault, like I was sayin', there're a bunch o'old family lines livin' around there, 'specially from the very generation you were tellin' me about; y'know, with your Grandpop,"

"Yeah,"

"So 'cause you've got a tight community with those outdated views, you're not gonna encounter anythin' that isn't like what you're used to. You ever see many Irish Protestants?"

"Dude, Jack," Scout's eyes widen, as if the mere insinuation threatened to give the young man a heart attack. "If they're there then they're real freakin' good at pretendin' to be Catholic,"

Sniper grumbles, but sees that Scout continues to sip comfortably from his glass, the man parting his lips slightly before bringing Scout's into his own, covering it in a loving grip. He gives the Australian a slow but heartfelt, wobbly smile, the young man's soft fingers trailing softly against the back of Sniper's warm hand.

"So…" Sniper begins, Scout starting and looking him in the eye. "…Where's your Dad's family from? Which city in Ireland was he born in?"

"It's a place called Ringaskiddy, near Cork. They came to the US in 1927,"

"Really now?"

"Yeah,"

"You ever been?"

"Who, me?! 'Course not! Though Ma said Dad took Alex when he was around four, so in 1936 I guess they musta flown back with my Granddad for a while. I mean he was the oldest, and it was before we were poor 'cause it was just him, Chris, and Anthony…"

"What's he think of it?"

"He never talks about it," Scout shrugs. "He's the only one who ever went and acts like it never happened,"

"'Nd you guys don't keep track o'your history, do ya?"

"Uh, you kiddin'? Ma has trees for her _and_ dad's side in her bedroom. Those things date back to 1635, but they end with me and my brothers, Ma's gotta add on Ginny and her sister, the baby…"

"Hm, 1635? 'S nothin' t'scoff at, y'know? 's over three hundred years o'family history,"

"Dad's side starts with a dude named Lóegaire Fitzpatrick, he was a cowherder in the hills,"

"Sounds right nice, 'lmost dream like; a nice, modest profession in the _Irish hills_, nothin' but sweet little calves 'nd maybe a cottage…"

"Sounds like someone's got a fantasy,"

"Oi, livin' in the wilderness with animals 'nd the van's been a dream o'mine since I was twenty years old,"

"And you say you ain't a hippie,"

"Oi! I'll still manage t'have a _job_, unlike those grovelin' little wastes o'my tax dollars,"

"Aw come on, Luke's a total hippie and he has a job," Scout grins, referring to Jack's own comrade and friend, the RED Pyro. "Don't think I didn't notice the time you two was outside chirpin' and callin' birds,"

"That doesn't make me a hippie!"

"You smell like one,"

"Only 'cause I refuse t'plug up my underarms with that toxic hogwash!"

"Right, 'cause not wearin' deodorant 'cause it's not _organic_ isn't somethin' a hippie would say…"

The candle, now flickering a dim crimson, fogged against the maroon velour curtains and suggesting the wick is flickering under only a few inches left of life, casts a soft light against Lawrence's warm, flushed face. The influence of the alcohol filling the young man with mellow, sluggish beatitude that causes the length of Scout's lips to curl into a smile of utter, drunken complacency. "'S'ppose y'think you're funny or somethin'…" Jack chuckles, and the two men toast to the statement, smiling at each other heartily before downing the rest of the bottle in less than fifteen minutes. It isn't until the candle dies entirely, in fact, when Katherine returns, a small leather booklet in her hand, presumably with the bill

"Ah—forget about it, love, I'm takin' care of it…" Jack beams as he catches the book before Lawrence can carry through with his plan of wrenching the flap to take a peek at the bill, the man producing a dark brown wallet and sifting through a neatly stacked arrangement of bills, alternating between twenties and fifties. Scout's eyes widen, though Jack's nimble fingers are too quick for the young man to actually catch and determine a total cost for the night's excursion; not that he wouldn't have been too drunk to do so anyhow.

"…was a pleasure, Katherine, 'nd thanks for your service," Jack grins, Lawrence however grimacing at the blonde and her modest smile directed at the satisfied though composed Australian and his handing to her what Scout considers to be a_highly_ exaggerated tip, though what truly catches his eye is the soft smile in her eyes, and the scrawl upon torn white paper she subtly slips the unknowingly taken older man.

"'S wrong with you, love? Y'look rather ticked," Jack smiles, Scout sending a hand to grip onto his wrist, prying the note from his hand and uncrumpling it quickly, the sloughly inebriation from before proving to disintegrate as instead a rising fury means to replace it.

"The _fuck_ is this, Jack?!" he spits, slamming the balled up wad so it crashes against the table, Sniper stuttering as he meets the Bostonian's eyes. "The _FUCK_—"

"_Larry, love—_"

"FUCK YOU, JACK!" Scout roars, rising from his chair and throwing the crumpled ball at the man's chest, Jack catching it as upon the note is Katherine's name and number, his stomach falling through his feet and floor, sinking well below any inhabitable part of the earth's surface.

"_Lawrence, please…_" Sniper begs quietly, though the other diners do not seem too intrigued by the man's cautious entreaty. Instead they watch the fuming Scout with quiet, unabashed and blatant interest, the young man's deafening rant about hitting on skanky waitresses whilst on a date clearly more captivating than any meal on their plate or the words of any lovers of their own.

"SO WHAT WAS IT, JACK? JUST A QUICK MEAL SO YOU WOULDN'T FEEL SO BAD ABOUT FUCKING ME IN YOUR SHITHOLE OF A VAN?! SO YOU COULD FUCK ME AND LOOK ME IN THE FACE AND NOT FEEL GUILTY ABOUT IT?! SO YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO BE A FAG _AND_ A CHEAP BOYFRIEND?!"

"_Lawrence, that's enough, you're drunk—!_"

"I AIN'T SO DRUNK THAT I DON'T SEE HOW MUCH OF A SLUT YOU AND YOUR WAITRESS _WHORE_ ARE! DO YOU LIKE IT WHEN YOUNG DUDES FALL FOR YOU?! 'CAUSE YOU DON'T GOTTA PAY FOR 'EM?! BUT DUDES LIKE YOU WHO'VE BEEN ALL AROUND THE BLOCK KNOWS HOW SHIT WORKS, HUH?!"

"_Larry, we are causin' a disturbance—the manager's lookin' at us—the whole restaurant's lookin' at us!_"

"I DON'T HEAR YOU DENYIN' IT—!"

"Larry, love, you're _so_ drunk—I can't help what she wrote, love, I don't _want_ her, I love you! T'night wasn't about anythin' other than makin' y'happy—!" Jack pleads as he places his hands on the frame of the heavily breathing Bostonian, Scout pushing him away so violently he crashes against the sil of the window, Sniper groaning as the hard oak collides with his lower back.

"YEAH RIGHT, JACK! I LOVE _YOU_ AND YOU DON'T SEE ME TAKIN' SOME GIRL'S NUMBER! HEY _KATHERINE, YOU STUPID BITCH_—HOW DO YOU LIKE SINGLE AUSTRALIANS?!"

"Larry!"

"FUCK YOU JACK, FUCK YOU AND YOUR STUPID PLAN! WE'RE FUCKING THROUGH!" Scout glares at him for only a few seconds' more before tearing from the restaurant proper, the eyes of the patrons following him insofar they can before detaching from the cavaties of their skulls and following the young man with an indignant, violent stride through the double doors of their own.

"Fuck, Lawrence!" Sniper growls as he grabs his suit jacket and wastes no further time in trailing the drunkenly infuriated young man, the air cool and the streets just as lively as they were some three hours ago, despite the fact his wristwatch reads 10:39 pm. "God fuckin' dammit."

Slipping on the garment, he checks to make sure his wallet and keys are still in the breast, though his hands clamp around them as he picks a direction and runs in it, hoping to God it's the correct one. _'Guess I should try findin' 'im with the van'_Jack reasons mentally, hoping the young man doesn't cause any further trouble; walking around in decent suits, dark and alone in an unknown part of the city, was never the wisest of ideas, no matter how certain Jack was the young man could take care of himself.

_'Lawrence you bloody idiot'_

"OI!" the man roars as he rounds the corner and catches Lawrence mid swing, a shattering of glass echoing throughout the alleyway seconds later as he brings the chunk of concrete in his hand to collide against the van's windshield, splintering from the epicenter of impact in veiny trails up to the steel wiring of the windows themselves, shards sprinkling to the ground in powdered flickers.

"_THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU, LAWRENCE?!_" Jack wails as Scout knocks out the other before bringing his hand to smash out a headlight.

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY VAN YOU DELUSIONAL LITTLE SHIT!"

"WHERE'S KATHERINE?! YOU COULDN'T BRING HER BACK WITH YOU TO THE VAN?! GUESS YOU'RE NOT AS LUCKY AS YOU THINK, _JACK_—"

"THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! OI!" Jack roars as Scout takes off down the alley, his natural inclination for speed clearly refusing to falter even in his drunken state.

"My baby…" Jack weeps as he surveys his damaged van, sparing her a good thirty seconds before a woman's shriek sounds from a few streets' over.

_'Larry, I swear if that's you 'causin' more of a scene….'_ Jack roars before starting himself, his heart racing as he twists down back streets and alleys, sweat drenched and rancid, the natural perspiration mixing with the faded cologne.

_"HE'S GOING TO JUMP!"_

Jack whips around to find a modest crowd has gathered on the center of a cobblestone bridge, riding a good twenty feet above a rivers whose darkened waters Sniper cannot determine a depth for. Standing upon the intricate steel castings painted white is Lawrence who balances himself dramatically on the edge of the bridge, Jack making a motion to wrench him down but instead sighing as the young man turns his head to steal a glance at the sweating man.

"Lawrence I swear t'everythin' that is Holy if y'don't get down from there,"

"What, Jack?!" Scout snaps, turning to glare at the man before facing the water once more.

"_Someone stop this young man!_"

"He's _drunk_, Miss!" Sniper growls, eyeing the young man's back angrily. "He's in a right state 'nd he's bein' ridiculous!"

"_Someone call the police_!"

"'_S no need t'get the police involved, Miss_!" Jack roars, his expression loosening as Lawrence lifts a foot, turning to give the Australian a final look back.

"Goodbye Jack."

The same noisy woman screams as without further ado the young man plummets below, Sniper trailing right behind him as he tosses his jacket aside and dives after him without a second thought.


	23. Glass Onion

Despite the young man's efforts to soundlessly pry open the thin metal door painted iron grey, an adjunct to the small though modest sitting room in the middle of the camper van, a moaning creak still sounds as long as the young man taps the tip of a naked toe against it, Lawrence swearing it mocks him as the indication of his presence drones longer, as if by tantalizing him by being so noisy the door itself was fulfilling a vendetta.

He'd have to face the man at some point; standing before him wasn't what the Bostonian so verily feared, but he'd prefer to do so in a way that labeled the physicality of his entry as inconspicuous, so that he could stand in front of the Australian with a steeled resolve and rooted feet, and above all, a stifled desire to run. But by slipping slowly through the door, barely dry and barely clothed, pathetic faced with a blanket curled around the whole of his body so only his head was to be seen poking through the down like a guilty pimple, he only gave the man more time to take in the brevity of his apologetic stance—and that he allows the blanket to drag on the camper floor; he'd complained about it in the best, he'd be certain to grow upset about that fact.

He'd be upset about a lot of things.

Gulping and realizing that shuffling back to the flattened mattress in the sleeping room would not prove to be any better of a decision than bearing his fate and stepping forward, the young man allows his index finger, exposed and tender, to gander from in between the warm folds of cotton comfort and poke at the cold ore of the door. It swings open soundlessly once Scout actually applies some pressure and pushes it with the intent of actually slipping through it, no longer trying to hide himself. The muffled noise, he'd been able to decipher, being the radio turned down to a moderately low decibel, the voices quick, hushed, hollow, and filtered through the wooden contraption Scout aged to be at least twenty years old. Scout surveys the ground, pulling the blanket tighter around him, stepping forward just in time for the voices on the radio to share a booming laughing fit before a man gifted with the classic voice of fifties radio chatters livelily about setting mousetraps meant for women by placing new shoes where the cheese usually goes. Neither Lawrence nor the weary man slumped in the armchair—the _only_ chair he can actually fit in the automobile—expend even a smile in honour of the misogynistic, wave riding comedians, the young man much too focused on his light and non-aggressive step toward Jack for humour.

The Australian sits with his eyes lidded shut, though peaceful and without signs of tension. His hands, ungloved, are clasped just below his navel, his chest rising like sitting dough, similar in acceleration and lofty in its movement. His wet hair suggests he showered a few minutes ago, damp but not sopping. The floor decides to give way and creak under his weight this time, though Scout decides enough time has passed between the present and other such notable events that had transpired that night, thus he doesn't let the groan bother him. The usual slouch hat, which Lawrence had not seen for the entirety of the evening, sits on the side table, sharing the space with a lamp and a particularly full ashtray, a visible increase in discarded cigarettes suggesting the man had been smoking profusely since Scout's nap.

The familiar sunglasses also sit folded and perched upon the corner of the stand, Sniper startling the young man as he goes to reach an arm to grip his ashtray, producing from behind it his lighter and a pack of the same French cigarettes he'd long since made a habit of stealing from Luc. Scout gulps and darts his eyes to the floor ashamedly as the man sits up to flick the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it smoothly, his actions void of any aggression in themselves. The two stand (and sit) in silence for a good minute in a half, a jaunty tune of brassy swing swindling its cloaked notes and jazzy sound through the ancient speaker.

Whilst reveling in their silence Scout decides to busy himself with the pattern of Sniper's long johns, a peachy colour and impossibly long in order to accommodate his neverending legs. He wears a matching thermal long sleeve shirt, also flesh coloured, a few strands of his masculine bushel of chest hair sticking out over the collar. Lawrence sighs before tugging the heavy blanket from around himself, slipping from his lean body like woven silk, nearing closer to the man as he motions to cover Jack with it instead. The third creak works as a charm, or perhaps it was the feel of the soft comforter draping itself suddenly across his chest, the Australian letting his eyelids retract sluggishly, eyes racing to meet the hesitant Scout who stands with his hands extended before him.

"Why in the world're y'only in your undies 'nd 'n undershirt, Lawrence…" Sniper snaps, in an exhausted growl, shifting so the blanket falls off his frame and onto the floor in a quiet slump.

"I thought I told y'to put warm clothes on."

"Sorry…" Scout whispers, picking up the down and wrapping it around himself again, Sniper laughing a brief, scoff of a laugh.

""S not _my_ health," Jack growls, Lawrence sighing again and tugging the fabric tighter around him. "Then again if it were 's not like you'd actually take me int' consideration in the first place."

The man's standoffish, accusatory tone suggests the man too had Scout's outburst on the mind. Understandably so; the man had dived into the polluted Missouri River after the drunken young man, hardly in a state to be in the water himself after two hours of drinking. The river itself had to've been at least sixty feet deep, the man having fought the tides and darkened waves to find the struggling young man passed out well below the surface. Taking much of the brine into his mouth, he'd only just made it and broke the water for air with the unconscious Lawrence on his back, trying to ignore the water in his own lungs to take in breaths deep enough to power his body to swim them both to the river's edge, the man performing CPR on the Bostonian for three minutes, fearing, with absolute agony, he had been too late.

Even despite embarrassing him in front of dozens, causing a scene and the locals in the area to call the police and cite him with a ticket, jack could never forget the damaging his van. After driving as far out of the city as he could, the man still parked and stripped them both of their sopping, filthy suits, giving the passed out Scout a warm shower with more than half of their water supply (the tank under the van only held a few dozen gallons), and tucking him into bed.

Of course Jack wouldn't be so quick to forget it all.

"D'd'you finish your soup 'nd bread?" Sniper asks roughly but evenly, Scout licking his lips before nodding sporadically. "I made it for _you_,"

"Yeah," Lawrence nods again, his hands circling the width of the ceramic bowl the Australian had prepared a hearty soup with.

"What'n the _bloody Hell_ d'you think you're doin' handin' it t'me?! You've got legs, haven't you?!" Sniper snaps at the young man who made to hand the Australian the bowl he keeps tucked in his arms, implying he should walk it to the kitchen to the tiny sink barely able to fit any dishes at all. Lawrence says nothing outright before making toward the kitchenette, taking slow steps because of his wrapped figure. They do not stop him from tripping over the hem of the blanket and tumbling to the ground, the dishes crashing against the floor in a loud, ringing clang—

"_CHRIST_!" Sniper shouts, stomping from his chair and snatching the fallen cutlery from off the ground and making the rest of the trip to the sink, dumping them before making his way back into the sitting room, Scout hoisting himself from the ground. "I'm so tired of this, I'm so _fucking_ tired of this!" Sniper snarls, bringing his head into his hands. Scout watches, tense, chewing on his lip and still covered by the whole of the blanket around him. He sighs worriedly, retracting into the fabric encasing him so only his eyes are visible.

"Sorry—"

"_Sorry, Lawrence?! Really?!_" Jack chuckles incredulously, turning to look the young man in the eye, though Scout averts his gaze the instant it settles itself upon him.

"Sorry for _what_ exactly?! For makin' fools of us _both_ like y'do _every time_ I take y'the _fuck_ outside?! Sorry for provin' y'don't trust me by thinkin' the waitress writin' _her_ name down on a paper I didn't even _expect_ t'get was my idea?! Sorry for throwin' me a right middle finger for the dinner 'nd wine by throwin' your _arse_ into a river in an attempt to commit _suicide_?! Maybe you'll tell me sorry for the ticket I got on my permanent record?! Or _maybe_ I'll get a sorry for the busted t'shit windshields 'nd headlights—!"

"Jack, _please_! I really _am_ sorry, Jack—!"

"Right, well y'know what?! I'm real sorry too, I regret not leavin' your fuckin' arse back at 2Fort, y'stupid cunt—"

"Jack, I love you!" Larry wails, though amazingly his eyes are dry and void of tears, though his face is pink from frustration surely stemming from suppressing them. "Please don't say you regret all o'this, you know I love you!"

"Y'know, Lawrence, I really can't say I do," Jack chuckles, shaking his head and letting his arms fall to his side. "The more time I spend with ya, I really have t'wonder if it's true," the man snaps, Scout's features pulled back in utter horror.

"That _hurts_, Jack…"

"The only thing I know for certain is that you're fuckin' insane 'nd need t'be medicated—"

"I can't _take_ it, Jack, it only makes me worse! I tried the medication, and it landed me with more therapy 'cause it made me suicidal!"

"'Course it does, it _bloody_ figures, eh? Why should you ever have t'make an effort when I try for you already?! I try so _fuckin'_hard for you, every single Goddamn day I get up and make it about _you_, what can I do for Little Lawrence?!" the man begins, glaring at Lawrence in the eye. "I try for us _both_ t'make this work, Lawrence, to the point where we've got people 'nd friends 'nd relatives riskin' their own lives t'keep what they know about us secret. T'the point where I'm throwin' myself in front o'my own teammate's fire in order t'save you from catchin' the blast. 'Nd even two years ago, when y'first told me about your feelin's, I sat there, thinkin' t'myself about ways t'let you down softly, wonderin' if I even wanted to continue our friendship. But no, Lawrence, I stayed your friend for _you_, because I didn't want t'see you hurt. I gave you a chance, 'nd before I knew it I loved you _too_, but even though you were callin' me a fag, tryin' _t'fuck_ me 'nd play with my junk only t'turn around 'nd say you were just _horny 'nd desperate_ 'nd not actually in love with _me_, I still stayed by your side, because I knew how hard it was, bein' in love for the first time; I didn't hold it any of it against you, because I loved _you_, because you were my friend. I knew I was prolly only goin' t'get my or yourself hurt, disregardin' our obvious incompatibility, but I did it t'give you, _us_, a chance. I let ya cum, fart, drool, sweat, 'nd sleep in my bed—I've made my home yours. I feed ya—_all_ the food I keep in here is food y'like, I drove across the country for _you_, I've always got ya on my mind, 'nd I'm fightin' for us every day, every single _bloody_ day, Lawrence, 'nd y'know? I'm startin' t'really wonder if I don't regret it. All y'do is bring me down, 'nd I gotta ask how worth it it all is t'me,"

Lawrence, mouth slightly agape, can only watch as the man slips the cigarette from between his lips, blowing out a gust of smoky air, though not without coughing violently, his lungs clearly damaged from the river water. It doesn't appear too painful, the Australian catching his breath moments later.

"This isn't even about the ruined _dinner 'nd date_, or the ticket, or jumpin' in t'save ya. 'S isn't about the ruined Armani suit I'll never be able t'afford again; material possessions mean nothin' t'me, Lawrence, _especially_ not if it means I saved your life t'night. 'S isn't about the fact I'll never get the smell o'the Missouri River out the back o'my throat. This isn't about everythin' I do, have done, 'nd what y'don't even _know_ I do for you. I can take these things, Lawrence. I'm willin' t'take them if it means bein' yours—but when you touch my _van_…" Jack begins, sighing heavily. "Then it gets pretty bloody personal,"

"So then you mean to tell me the rest of that shit don't mean _nothin'_ to you," Lawrence growls, tossing the blanket on the floor and looking the Australian in the eye with renewed fervor. "But I smash your van's _replacable_ windshield and you're ready to break up with me—?!"

"The _van_ has gotten me through more shit than you'll _ever_ know or understand, Lawrence! It's been here _longer_ than you'll ever be, 's literally _supported_ me through some o'the hardest periods o'my life, 'nd y'know what?! I can expect more affection from a twenty year old, broken down _camper_ than I could _ever_ expect from you, a livin' human bein' who _claims_ t'love me! 'Nd if y'don't think that's sad, then we've got a problem,"

"I don't get it…" Scout whimpers, picking at the blanket, his voice and tone disheartened and soft. "I don't understand why you gotta feel like the van loves you more than _me_…"

"'Cause I see it every day! Each and every single _bloody_ relationship I've ever gotten into's been nothin' but me gettin'_beaten_, takin' more physical 'nd verbal abuse than I can stand, but I still give y'my everythin', Lawrence, because you're different from them, because I _want_ y'to be different from them, but—"

"So what, you're sayin' I'm just as bad as your fuckin _drugged up_ ex boyfriends that beat the shit outta you and called you a bitch?!" Scout shouts, glaring at the man who stands above him. "That fuckin' hurts, Jack…"

"C'mon, Lawrence, you're smarter than that; d'you not remember that you're gettin' paid on a daily basis t'try 'nd do me in—?!"

"Yeah, but it ain't me _beatin' ya 'cause I wanna abuse you_!"

"'Nd what about the whole year 'nd a half y'took t'call me a filthy faggot after _you'd_ try kissin' _me_?! D'you remember, Lawrence?! Tellin' me y'wanted t'kiss me for the first time, 'nd how you'd come ont' me for the rest o'that damn year?! 'Nd despite lovin' ya back I'd tell ya no, because I knew the things you were gonna say, 'nd I just couldn't kiss someone who was gonna make me feel less than _human_ the instant we broke apart!"

"But your hardly ever _did_, Jack! You'd rarely ever let me kiss you!"

"'Cause I knew how it was all goin' t'end!"

"Well _whatever_, Jack, it's in the fuckin' past! We're over it! You know I love you, I don't do that shit no more now I've got it figured out, now I'm okay that I'm gay for ya or whatever the fuck, why are we still on what I used t'do?!"

"'Cause I haven't got _myself_ figured out, Larry, whether or not I wanna keep goin' like this,"

"Like _what_?!"

"Makin' excuses for myself _why_ I bother t'even speak t'you in the first place! I give you everythin', 'nd even at your worst I forgive you, I get over it, because I don't wanna let y'go, but y'know what Lawrence?! I don't think I can come up with excuses anymore," but Jack simply exhales, flicking the dead cigarette filter into the ashtray before shaking his head heavily. "Fuck it." The camper door slams heavily, Scout not prepared and thus jumping wildly at the collision of the metal with the frame, the sound of Jack's footsteps crunching against the forest floor outside, the man bustling about for nearly a half hour.

His words ring harshly in Lawrence's ears and memory, the hardly clothed young man curled in a quiet ball in the vacated arm chair, the radio personalities now comedically trying to list all fifty US states between themselves, the ticking of the wall clock Jack had never bothered to tack up sounding from a corner of the sitting room, an odd number of beeps signaling to Scout it was indeed 4:15 am. Only when a distinct number of chirrups exemplifies to the mentally spaced out Lawrence that a whole other half hour had passed does he jolt back to reality, instantly taking notice of the fact that Jack had not returned. Hoisting himself from the armchair, Scout slips into the evening, sighing above at the cloudless sky; it wouldn't be much longer until the spring would fold back and reveal in its wake a toasty, comfortable summer. Perhaps a warm summer meant for grilling, with chilled waters and icy fruit, the two lying with their backs against the van, arms touching so unarguably the Bostonian's arm would actual prickle due to Jack's arm hair…

Maybe him, Jack, and Luke could all laugh about the times and people and their histories like always, Luke sharing humourous stories about his hippie aunt and uncle and the things witnessed whilst living in the commune, Lawrence begging again for the fifteenth time in a row for the French-Canadian to reveal to him what the _other_ French speaker of a similar name had been gossiping about his youngest stepson…

Though with the way things looked Lawrence could hardly say he had any hope in his fantasy coming to pass. The very real sounds of Jack banging away on the steel of the van does much to impede his conscious from making anything of the young man's reverie as well; he saunters his way over Jack, who kneels in the mud, tongue clamped tightly in between his lips in concentration as he screws a lightbulb into the still cracked headlight, grumbling to himself as the current refuses stimulation.

"…looks like you might be able to get your headlight fi—"

"Lawrence why are you outside without clothes," Jack interrupts coldly, not even looking at the young man as he does so. Scout blanches, for he still stands in only his underpants and a flimsy undershirt, and absolutely no shoes. "For God's _sake_, you're outside," Jack growls taking a glance at Scout's bare feet before shaking his head at the crestfallen Bostonian. "Stupid fuckin' idiot—"

"Jack, I came out here to help—"

"Y'can help by gettin' outta my face for a change,"

"A—alright…." Scout replies meekly, sighing hurtfully as he heads back inside and plops back into the same dark red armchair, focusing on the frayed and torn fabric, picking at a slight hole in the corduroy. He finds himself trying to name presidents in order along with the same two jovial men whose voices still clutter the sitting room.

_"….Now I believe it was a fine young gentleman by the name of Zachary Taylor—_"

_"That's ridiculous, Archie, any American on well standing ground knows the title of Thirteenth President goes to Millard Filmore—"_

_"Millard?! How can you expect me to Mill 'er before I Fill 'er?!"_

_"I bet you his wife would have something to say about the things that filled her—"_

_"Archie, think of the children!"_

_"What children?! I was going to say ice cream because the silly old goon Millard was too busy wearing Whigs to actually be a husband!"_

"Yeesh, these guys are _terrible_!" Scout moans right as the two men erupt into a fit of laughter, Jack barging through the door, visibly shivering and absolutely covered from head to toe in oil and grease, his long johns sullied as well. Scout watches him with wide eyes as he strides past the young man in the armchair without a word, striding back toward the sleeping room and busying himself in there for a couple minutes' time.

"…Jack?" Scout calls, curling back up in the chair as he yields no response. "You alright back there?"

The Australian strides past him, naked from the chest up and drenched in the auto fluid, wiping his brow and setting their kettle on a single heated camp plate, warming the water for more tea. Scout smirks warily, but still rises from the chair and into the small bathroom, soaking a clean rag in warm water and soap, careful not to be too generous with the faucet, for supplies were clearly running low. "Hey, don't tell me you _like_ these guys…" Lawrence smiles smally as he returns to find Jack having stolen his spot on the armchair, once again leaning back with closed eyes and a suggestion of preferring not to speak more than necessary. "They're bozos." Jack opens an eye and glares at him quietly with a raised eyebrow, falling silent as Lawrence actually crawls into the chair with the rag, nestling in the man's lap and falling against him softly. "I don't hear a no."

Lawrence brings the rag to smooth across the man's stubble free cheek, Jack grunting as Scout's motions skew his face though do clean him off, the oil sliding from his skin like ash across silver. He does this for a few minutes, bringing the rag against his jaw and slowly lowering it to his neck, a spot that was always highly sensitive and arousing for the Australian. This particular kink shows itself in the form of a light start and grunt from the man, who shifts and mutters, but let's Scout continue nonetheless, much to the Bostonian's pleasure. He watches as his own wrist drags the blackened cloth across the man's tanned skin, smoothing over his hairy chest and catching the grease that resides there too, settled deep in his skin. Lawrence twitches and brings his legs to curl closer against his own chest, bringing the cloth back to the man's left cheek while slowly leaning in to kiss softly along the other—

"_Whoa…sorry Jack…_" Scout whispers at the man's start over Scout's lips grazing at his jawline. Sniper looked disgruntledly uncertain at best, shying away from the affectionate young man's maneuvers and sighing deeply as Scout grabs his large hand.

"…is everything okay, Jack? I'm just—I'm just tryin' to find a way to show I'm sorry…" Larry whimpers, Jack opening his eyes wearily.

"No, Lawrence—'s 'lright…"

"But do you mean it though? I—I just don't get the feelin' you're too happy with me for real,"

Sniper chuckles unamusedly.

"Seriously though—I love you so much, you don't even know—I'd do anything for you, and I don't want you to be mad at me no more—and I don't want you to be sad, okay?" Lawrence asks the man quietly, trying his best to keep his own voice and wavering eyes even. But no matter his efforts Sniper can still read the desperation in his figure, in his eyes, in his motions and thoughts and in his tension. He tries hard to speak. He tries so hard, for the sake of the young man who looks him dead on in the eye with more sympathy and apology he ever thought possible for him to muster, to comfort him and steal any sort of apprehensive awareness of Jack's own hesitancy. He tries spreading his thin lips, only to bring them together again, to a fine point before Scout places them on his own.

"…do you still love me, Jack…?"  
>"I just dunno, Lawrence," Jack sighs, plucking Scout from off his lap before sauntering off toward the sleeping room, Scout's expression one of utter disappointment.<p>

"I just dunno."

-

"Get up, Lawrence."

The addressed makes to respond to the Australian's request, sitting up from the blankets and rubbing his eyes, the organs unable to adjust to the light of a golden morning on their own. The only way to stop them from stinging to the point of blindness being to shut them with his fist. The effort to speak is breached as well, his voice commandeered by a violent fit of wet coughs that actually causes the young man to double over and clutch his stomach, Lawrence moaning in between the taxing ruptures.

"You're comin' down with somethin', aren't ya?" Jack grumbles, fully dressed in comfortable slacks and a windbreaker over a short sleeve shirt. Scout watches silently as the man rummages wearily through the small chest near the bed, lips pointed to better exalt his moody disposition, emitting soft wisps of sighs as it grows more apparent his fingers do not traverse the box absentmindedly but instead clearly search for something in particular.

"_Right_."

Scout grunts as Sniper sticks the thin, silver end of a thermometer in between his moistened lips, the young man curling his eyes shut as he blankets the small metal nub underneath the hooded warmth of his tongue. He parts his lids open slowly as he realizes the man had no intention of pulling back anytime soon, the expression he dons Lawrence finds to be unreadably stoic and ambiguously cold in its inflection. Scout stops himself from making a mention of how gross it was he sat tongue kissing the oral measuring tool after who knew how many times Sniper too had slathered the mouthpiece with coats of his genetic liquid. He chooses to say nothing only because it lightens him to see the Australian cares for his condition at all; Lawrence had only spent the whole night paranoid, lost in crisscrossing musings stemming from a distinct worry about how the older man would choose to interact with him come morning. That Jack acknowledges his presence at all surprises him both pleasantly and muchly, thus he withholds his New English snark. He'd rather remain tactful with the man he's surprised finds it within himself to speak in his general directon.

He doesn't watch Lawrence, however, and as the young man follows his makeshift doctor's gaze (Heinrich would either be proud or insulted to know a Bushman had so easily and effortlessly stepped up to assume his role) to their real point of interest, he sees the way his grey irises fish out a verdict from the simplistically though clearly medically versed contraption (for the thing _was_ able to determine whether or not he had a fever), and Lawrence allows his eyes to cross in an effort to do the same. Watching the mercury travel past the short black dashes serving as markers, Scout feels his stomach drop as he sees the red finally stagnate to _38 degrees Celsius_.

"_Shit_."

Lawrence stares at his hands guiltily, his mind heaving a laborious, mental _'great'_ as he adds yet another thing to the list of reasons Sniper was certainly accumulating to live deep in the forest where no one could reach him ever again.

"What's 38 mean?"

"Means fever, 'nd that you'll be hackin' up body parts for the next three days, I reckon 's jus' the silence b'fore the storm for you right now," Jack grumbles, snatching the thermometer, deeming a simple swipe of the reed with his shirt to be sanitary enough of a cleansing procedure before shoving it back into the drawer. "I told you t'keep your body covered last night,"

"I'm sorry, Jack, it's just that it was hot wearin' the pants under the blankets, too…"

"Right, well, now you've got _pneumonia_…"

Jack takes the young man's chin into his fingers, dragging gentle hands across his profile and bringing them to rest on his forehead. "…you're burnin' up, Scout,"

"I'll be alright…" he nods assuredly, shifting again and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Still, 'd be good if y'ate these," Sniper grunts, gesturing to a small fruit plate he must have prepared, Scout eyeing the crescent orange slices and banana chips longingly, for they looked cold and ripe, everything else around him so humidly sweltering.

"….thanks,"

"Right; I guess I'm gonna go 'head 'nd hit the road. If I keep goin' all day we'll definitely hit the 'Fort by tomorrow mornin'."

Jack speaks as if talking to a potential hirer and _not_ his own best friend, his tone formal, efficient, moderately cold; it was a voice Scout was readily familiar with, one he knew Sniper kept reserved for his colleagues, or that he would use with representatives from TF Industries who appeared every now and then, suited in tweed variants of whatever colour or side they represented. Lawrence fully recognized the hollow dialogue and uninvested eyes, spaced out and not focused on anything in particular. He'd come to know it from the other side, as someone so familiar with the man's soft spoken Australian drawl, so familiar with the comfort of its timbre, that it never once occurred to him that perhaps he wasn't so immune to this unpersonable tone of voice himself.

"…Still…" Lawrence begins timidly, mouth full of citrus slices. "It ain't like I've never dealt with pneumonia before, huh? 'S long as you got some Wagner records it'll be like old times,"

Sniper chuckles only once, shortly, deeply, and somewhat humourlessly. Still, Scout finds he cannot ignore the small smile resting on the corner of each of the man's dimples. It was a good sign, Scout concludes; a sign he didn't hate the young man completely.

"I reckon you ought t'stay in bed; clearly y'need your rest…"

"Naw, Jack, I wanna be up there with you—if that's alright…"

"Sure," Jack mumbles without any real conviction or emotional investion in Lawrence's decision, Scout scratching behind his neck before swiveling his arm around to his lips, using the crook of it to catch his sickly germs. "If you're up to it,"

Scout nods.

"'Lright, fine," Jack sighs, though he slips from the sleeping room without another word, leaving Scout no hint as to whether or not he intended for him to follow. Either way he sweeps the comfortable blanket with him, walking about cloaked with heavy bed linens and moving gingerly because of them. Stepping outside he is able to properly hear the engine rumble, Sniper already in the driver's seat, hat on the dashboard, sunglasses rested and balanced on the bridge of his nose. It must have been early, the sun just barely haven risen fully, and the air so cool he can see his breath as he exhales. Even as Scout bunches the blanket and lifts himself up into the van, his hope for the day to come does not dwindle. The man eyes him curiously but lets him be, Scout curling in the passenger seat, the blanket however so taught around him only his head could be seen.

"You're jus' bringin' the whole bed, aren't ya…."

"'S way more comfortable, 'specially for a poor little sick thing like me!"

""S why I told you t'keep your arse in bed if sittin' up was too much for ya, we _sleep_ in those blankets, 'nd it's filthy in here!" Jack growls, gesturing to the well kept though admittedly dusty and grimey seats and dashboards of the van.

"'Nd _look_, y'got the blanket draggin' all over the floor—the whole _point_ o'doin' laundry back at your Mum's house was so that we wouldn't have t'spend money at the Laundromat in Teufort City, Lawrence,"

"Sorry, Jack—I'll—I'll go put the blanket back—"

"'S _whatever_, 's too late now!" the man scoffs, Scout clearing his throat only after a few minutes of silence.

"….are you annoyed with me?"

"Hah—understatement o'the _bloody century_, mate!" Jack chuckles Scout failing to see the humour in being called the annoyment of a lifetime. "Can't think of a single thing you've done in the last twenty four hours that could'a _pissed me off!_"

"_I dunno how many times I gotta say I'm sorry…._" Scout sighs, drawing his knees to his chest in a ruffling fit of shifting blanket. "You know I am, Jack, and I wish you'd just quit holdin' it against me!"

"_Bein' sorry doesn't fix my van, mongrel_—dunno what Mummy taught you but the revivin' power of children's tears doesn't do shit in the real word,"

"I don't understand why you're puttin' a fuckin' _car_ before the one you _say_ you love; I said I was sorry, so I dunno why you gotta hold a grudge…"

"Right, y'know I'm pretty sure you came first last night when I jumped after ya into the Missouri River, swallowin' heaps o'dirty, trashy, polluted water, 'nd yet there I was, drunk 'nd hardly even able t'walk straight, 'nd I'm leavin' my poor, broken van that _you_ vandalized alone so that I can go after _you_!"

"So what do you expect?! You went after a human being instead of standin' there starin' at your car, congratufuckinlations! I'm pretty sure anyone woulda done that!"

"No, _not_ everyone! I don't care _how_ many bloody _disorders or issues_ you've got, I'm not gonna sugar coat reality for you like Mummy may have all your damn life, but I'd reckon the majority of people would've let you drown after pullin' a stunt like that on 'em—"

"Fine, Jack," Scout sighs, turning his gaze to glare out the window. "I get it. _I get it_, I really fucked up, okay?! I deserved to drown and you should have let me,"

"'S not what I said—"

"I fucked up, I know, I know—"

"Yeah, you _fucked up_, with that new ticket I can't affort t'pay 'nd my busted t'Hell bumper 'nd headlight I hardly doubt we'll get t'the 'Fort without gettin' stopped by police!"

"Okay! _Okay_…" Scout sighs, the two men silent for a good thirty seconds.

"I _get_ it,"

"_So then quit askin' if I'm a little ticked then_,"

"Look, Jack, you're bein' really immature, you know that?! I apologized and I mean it, so why can't you forgive me and just_drop_ it?!"

"Look, I'm dealin' with this in the most mature way I can, 'lright?! Sorry—I know you're tryin' t'make it up t'me or whatever but I just can't—I'm just havin' a hard time lettin' it go; I'm pretty sure your mother wouldn't be so quick t'drop it either!"

"My mom isn't here, Jack, and I wish you'd quit tryin' to fill in for her! Seriously! I apologized, and all I'm tryin' to do is come at this like an adult,"

"Right, after that _adult like fiasco_ from yesterday,"

"Jack, seriously—I know I did some serious major shit last night, but you don't understand how sorry I am! I'll pay for you to get your van fixed, I'll pay off the ticket, just please, Jack…" Scout huffs, bringing a hand from the folds of his blankets to swipe through his hair.

"…I don't want you to be mad at me no more…"

"Why, 'cause you actually feel bad for me after all the shit you've put me through these last three years?! Or d'you want me t'just suck it up 'nd move on that way I can go back t'makin' everythin' all about _you_?!"

"I never said I wanted _shit_, Jack, just that maybe you could quit puttin' a car before me—"

"'The only _reason_ I'm riskin' the van overheatin' 'nd rushin' back t'2Fort is for _you_, comin' down with a cold 'nd whatnot, I wanna get you back t'your Doc so he can get you taken care of before you die o'hepatitis or somethin'!"

"So then you're just _cartin'_ me back to the base so the Doc can pump me full of _needles_?!"

"I'm _cartin'_ y'back to the base so you can get some shots—that way he doesn't end up havin' t'give you a _bone marrow transplant_! You're snifflin' 'nd shiverin' 'nd y'just don't need t'be out on the road anymore,"

"You're sayin' it like you're angry…"

"I'm sayin' it so you'll _listen_ t'me; I'm tired o'tryin' t'help 'nd look out for you, only for you t'turn around 'nd not actually try t'take my advice into account; Y'need t'eat real meals, drink tea 'nd not _Bonk_, keep your feet, throat, 'nd head nice 'nd covered. _Try_ not t'talk so much, blow your nose with a new tissue—"

"Jeeze Jack, I ain't even for real sick though…"

"I'm jus' tryin' t'keep ya from _gettin'_ that bad, Lawrence; you're not gonna find yourself nursed back t'health on the road 'nd in a non ventilated _van_. Y'need the medicine o'your Doc 'nd to be sleepin' in a real bedroom,"

"Yeah, naw, I get it…" Lawrence whispers, nodding slowly at the man's words.  
>"…thanks."<p>

Jack says nothing in response, though Scout finds the sentence to be a success if his comment doesn't ignite another flare of anger from the Australian. He doesn't say anything for a whole forty five minutes, the man strumming his fingers to the sound of soft voices and a languid guitar that seeps its way through the radio in the dashboard, his face unexpressive, leaving Scout unable to determine an approximation of the mood the man experiences either way. He coughs every now and then, hoping the sudden intrusion of noise doesn't cause Jack to slam his foot against the brake and cast the young man out onto the road yet again. Though still the young man can't help but notice that aside from the whistling that filters through the cracked follicles of splintered glass of the mangled windshield, the engine runs relatively silently, especially considered it too had taken heavy blows in Lawrence's rage.

"…she's drivin' good…" Lawrence whispers with apologetic sincerity, bringing his hands to rub along the dashboard gingerly. The act incites from Jack a silent but startled gasp as the young man strokes the junked contraption, though he hides it by swallowing any distasteful words and giving Lawrence a curt nod.

"Yeah, she's holdin' up pretty well…"

"You know I remember you sayin', back in February…"

"Wossat…"

"…you were sayin' she wasn't runnin', and that she needed a tune up,"

"Yeah, but a tune up next to broken headlights, busted windshields 'nd wipers, 'nd a shoddy engine's gonna cost me money I don't have…"

"'S too bad we can't turn around now and get Paul to help us out,"

"'S too bad hindsight 'nd wishful thinkin' never got anyone _anywhere_,"

"_Jeeze, Jack, you know what?! Fuck it_," Scout bursts, mouthing further words but growling as none of them suit what he tries to express. "I'm fuckin' sick of tryin' with you…"

"_You too_?! Join the club!"

"I don't _wanna_ join no fuckin' club, all I wanna do is move past this, Jack—"

"'S always about what _you_ want,"

"I think _any_ rational person would wanna move on though?!"

"Listen t'you, mate! Over there lecturin' _me_ on rationality when the waitress I wasn't even _remotely_ attracted to tries hittin' on me 'nd sends _you_ into a suicidal rage!"

"So what, you _wanna_ just sit and stay bitter 'cause I roughed it up?! She's twenty years old, Jack, and hey, she's still drivin' at least! You got plenty to be thankful for!"

"'Nd you can be just as thankful I don't have the mind t'open that door 'nd toss ya out onto the ground with the way you're talkin' t'me 'bout my van,"

"Look, you're _bringin'_ me to this point, Jack! No matter what I say, no matter how I say it, you've still got a fuckin' problem,"

"Maybe this isn't one o'those things I can jus' forget about, Lawrence—maybe this isn't you jus' throwin' a tantrum 'nd gettin' red in the face 'nd callin' me a poo brain; you accuse me o'cheatin' with a _woman_ I'd _never_ even bloody met, much less one I'd only known for a total _o'maybe_ twenty minutes if y'count all the times she came back t'the table, only t'take a swipe at the van afterwards when she didn't do a _thing_ t'deserve it! I excuse 'nd forgive a _lot_ for you as it is, Lawrence—there've been a _Hell_ of a lot o'things I've forgiven y'for over the last three years, 'nd y'know what? It was okay for a while, but when y'start t'wreck the only thing I have, the only thing that's never judged or hated me for who I fall in love with, the only thing my father's ever given me outta love in my life—'nd you should know how that feels, havin' an attachment t'the only proof y'ever had you had a dad t'begin with—"

"'Kay, so now you're gonna bring my dad into this Jack?! Is that the best you can do to hurt me?!"

"_All I know 's_ that we've come full circle if I've somehow ended up apologisin' _t'you_ for all the shit you've done on this trip alone," Jack spits, Scout staggering as he tries to come up with a comeback.

"'Nd I'm tired of it. I'm through with disregardin' myself 'nd apologisin' to you when I've done nothin' wrong. Clearly y'can't quit thinkin' 'bout yourself long enough t'realise everythin' I do for you—"

"What gives you the fuckin' right to just sit here and tell me the things _I_ notice like you're lookin' through my eyes—?!"

"—So why should you even be worth the time?"

"I'm sorry if you don't find your own fuckin' boyfriend _worth the time_—"

"Not everyone is Julie Fitzpatrick; not everyone is required t'love you, 'nd yet I do, 'nd all you do is take advantage of me—"

"Just say it, Jack!" Scout interrupts with a dirty, enraged glare, his face red and his brow wrinkled to the point of unrecognisabiliy, glaring fumingly at the Australian who, like he's done the whole time, allows his attention to stay plastered on the road.

"Just say what the fuck you mean to say so we can mo—"

"I think it would be better if you 'nd I went our own ways, Lawrence."

Scout blinks. The air he feels pulsating through his chest he finds unable to exhale, stunned to a point where even the subconscious mechanics of his body find themselves rendered to a point of disbelieving malfunctionality.

"So _what_, then…" the young man asks quietly, chewing on his lips. His lidded eyes and wavering voice suggests he was very well aware of _what_ was to come. Taking the Australian's hat off the dashboard, he brings it to rest atop his blanket, his nimble fingers fidgeting with the garment, busying himself with it until the older man can bring himself to speak once more.

"I don't understand what you're sayin', Jack…"

"I'm sayin' that when we get back t'the 'Fort, I'm packin' your little belongin's, handin' 'em to ya, 'nd you won't be comin' 'round anymore,"

"…So then that's it? Three years of friendship just _gone_ and out the window, Jack?!" Lawrence blanches, eyes wide, his fingers twirling the slouch hat's brim around in small revolutions with the tips of his fingers. He hugs it gently, pressing it to his chest, eyes on the floor, refusing to look the Australian in the eye.

"…Sorry,"

Lawrence's lips twist queasily, the young man closing his eyes gently.

"'S one thing I can apologise to ya for; I never shoulda led you on in the first place,"

"So then that's it, Jack?! Just, goodbye?"

"I'm afraid so,"

"So then I'm just supposed to pretend we never happened?!"

"It would be better for you than you think,"

"When I step outta this car then I'm just supposed to be _gone_, _forever_…"

"…"

"You never wanna see me again…"

"It's better for both of us…"

"So you're…just givin' up on me then," Lawrence croaks a final time, the man's hat still snug in the brace of his arms against his chest. "I ain't even worth fightin' for,"

"No, Lawrence," the man sighs, his eyes never once lifting from the road in front of him.

"'S _you_ not fightin' for me."


	24. Wheeping Willow

"You know what else he said?!" Scout asks sharply, chomping heartily through a toughened slice of bologna, the bread of his sandwich having long since been broken down by the enzymes of his spit (which too flies unabashedly from in between his blue, sickly chapped lips). "He told me to get out and then called me a tosser. I still ain't figured out what the heck that means," Lawrence brings his elbow to his mouth, pressing the salty flesh to his cracked lips, parting them before expelling twenty seconds worth of phlegmy, moist coughs from his chest. Placing his sandwich on the sleek and newly sterilsed surgical table, Scout gives further attention to his sore lungs, clutching his breast as his body finally shows him mercy. "_Ow_,"

"I _just_ cleaned and sanitized ze bay, Scout," Heinrich snaps tiredly, bringing his gloved hands to brush delicately across the metallic table which Scout prefers to regard as a seat, his bottom snug against the edge. "I have only been back a grand total of an hour and _already_ I must dust and spray down ze table again,"

"Okay, Doc, _jeeze_," Scout grumbles, sliding his feet onto the floor, the triangularly cut sandwich in his hands, rooted to it as if glued to the appendage. "Sorry for comin' to ya when I need ya,"

"You are taking me out of _context_, Scout, just _please be more mindful_! _AND YOU SHOULD NOT EVEN BE EATING IN ZE BAY_!"

"Dude, make up your _mind_!" Scout barks before releasing an aggravated "argh!" on the German's behalf. "I come in here, think_hey_, I'm sick and shit, maybe the Doc could prescribe me with somethin', you tell me to get food,"

"I _told_ you to get some rest and eat some _soup_, junge, and zat vas tventy minutes ago!" the German barks, swiping over the surface of the table with sanitary wipes for the third time in the aforementioned time frame. "Not come to come back down into ze basement viz hardly any clozing and a fattening _sandvich_,"

"Come on, Doc, I told ya I couldn't sleep," Scout explains sadly through another mouthful of food, his teeth smacking loudly as he swallows his bits of food through his sore and congested throat, the young man groaning as the slop sliding down his esophagus flares within him a prickling pain similar to dragging jagged pebbles across bleeding, irritated skin. "And it ain't like you've got medicine to help or nothin',"

"Don't be _ridiculous_, of course I have sleeping pills, I just feat zat zey vould not be ze best for your situation,"

"So agonisin' in bed is, Doc? Where in the Hell did _you_ get your medical license from,"

"Do you see one hanging up anyvhere?!" Heinrich retorts hysterically, the nesting doves he usually kept loose in the bay contained in a large, vast metallic cage, filled with perches and plenty of room for flight. It took up a significant majority of the bay's back storage area, clean and well maintained, and comfortable for the eight aviaries the man had grown to love so tenderly. "Jeeze, Doc…" Scout shakes his head at the laughing German, Lawrence watching silently as the man slips in fresh twigs and birch switches for the birds, whistling and blowing them soft coos, the Bostonian joining him next to the cage and smiling as the birds flock to his familiar face as well. "Every time I come in here when I'm dyin'n shit, I always leave with a million reasons to regret it,"

"Ach, Junge…" Heinrich chuckles, clearing his throat at his colleague's queasy expression. "You do not need me so much zis time around. I can assure you a simple diet of varm foods and sleep should suffice in bringing you back to healzh. Viz tomorrow and ze next day free it should be enough to get you fit again for battle…"

"Yeah…"

"And if you are going to vomit onto my newly mopped floor, zen please," Heinrich grimaces, handing the young man a metallic bucket indignantly. Scout smiles softly, curling it under his arm and rolling his eyes. "I _feel_ like I wanna, Doc," Scout mumbles, coughing again.

"_Not near ze birds_!"

"Sorry guys…" Scout whispers quietly at the chirping pigeons, which flap their wings before settling again on their perches. Heinrich scoffs under his breath, spraying disinfectant about, the sharp, chemical smell of cleanliness scratching at the young man's nose. "Yeah, I think I'm just gonna lie down,"

"Vat is _vrong_ viz you, Junge?" Heinrich asks him sympathetically, Scout giving the doctor a succinct look over with his glassy, cold influenced eyes, glaring at the rusted bottom of the potentially useful bucket should his stomach refuse to settle. Besides cold. "I don't even know where the fuck to begin." Heinrich starts at the expletive, but after a generous minute of complete silence from the verbose Bostonian, the German cannot help but look up from the cage and at the contemplative Lawrence who stands off to the side. "Clearly it must have started _somevere_," Heinrich suggests nervously, slipping off the gloves and placing them neatly into his coat pocket, sitting upon a pile of morphine filled crates and giving the young man a look of attentiveness. "Yeah, actually," Scout smirks, avoiding the man's eye. "After you left, when you dropped me off at the diner,"

"Oh? I have been meaning to ask you how zat all vent,"

"Right, well…"

"Spit it out, Lawrence!"

"So I apologized, right? You know, I kinda told him, you know, about what we talked about,"

"Vat's zat? You loving him?"

"Y-_yeah_…"

"Vhere iz ze problem?"

"C'mon, Doc, you ain't even givin' me a chance to tell you what happened,"

"Vell you are not getting zere fast enough! I cannot help you viz your problems if you do not tell me vat zey are!"

"Well _jeeze_, and you call _me_ impatient," the young man sniffs and coughs before patting his chest lightly. "So,"

"_So?_" Heinrich asks, his voice strained with all the patience of a school girl. "So you know, we were official,"

"Ach, zat is vonderful to hear! I am so glad I vas able to help!"

"Yeah, you really helped me, and we were like, I dunno, we kinda got into it a little, but it was nothin' serious. Ended up goin' to a strip club with him, right?"

"_Lawrence_!"

"Come on, Doc, I'm almost twenty five," Scout chuckles, fidgeting with a stethoscope resting upon the table, twisting it absentmindedly in his fingers. "You did not, put your zing, anyvere, I hope,"

"Doc _no_! She just kinda humped my junk for a bit while Jack watched and drank whiskey—it was somethin' else,"

"Oh Junge, you two are ze vierdest people I vill probably ever meet,"

"Nah, we were laughin' about it the next day, but—turns out he took me up to Boston, to visit my family,

"Vell zat vas very kind of him!"

"Yeah, we stayed a couple days and really had a great time…"

"Zat is good to hear,"

"He took me to a game, he got to meet Ma and a few of my brothers, I made him dinner one night and he really liked it! It was a good trip,"

"And your stepfazer?"

"Luc was an ass like always, but, he _bought_ us the tickets, you know? I thought that was pretty nice,"

"Hm, so zen he vas tolerable?"

"Tolerable enough,"

"I'm glad to hear you had a nice time viz your family, zen! You had been talking about missing your mom and brozers and how it had been too long since you had last seen zem,"

"Yeah well, my brother, Christopher, the one I told you had the little girls just a few months ago? He figured out I was with Jack and he kinda exploded in front of _everybody_,"

"Lawrence,"

"Yeah; he called me out in front of Ma and Luc and the kids, sayin' me and Jack were filthy and that I wasn't allowed in the house until I got _the fag whipped outta me in the war_. Ma and Luc stood up for us—it was the nicest thing he's ever done, you know?"

"Zat's terrible, junge," Heinrich sighs, shaking his head solemnly. "I too have suffered under ozers in a similar vay—for everyzing from being _German_ to being in a homosexual relationship viz a Soviet Jew,"

"Doc, that's…"

"It happens, but ven you grow to be my age, you find it does not matter as long as zat one does not leave your side,"

"_Yeah_," Scout interjects somewhat hysterically, putting the instrument down and attempting to lean nonchalantly against the table, his sweaty palms preventing him from gripping onto it with any noticeable avail. "After getting kick outta Boston early, we decided to just come back here, right?"

"Yes,"

"Well, we decided to spend some more evenings out,"

"Hit a club in every state along ze vay?"

"Hah—_not quite, Doc_,"

"Oh!"

"Nah, he wanted to take me somewhere nice, 'cause he said I deserved it,"

"Ach, zat vas very nice of Jack, vas it not?"

"He pulled out all the stops for me, Doc. He put on a suit and _deodorant_, and he got me one, too,"

"He bought you a suit?"

"Yeah, and it looked really nice on me, he said so,"

"Lawrence, zat is darling,"

"Right. He took me out to dinner in Downtown Saint Louis. It was this fancy ass place, too, wasn't nothin' on the menu under ten (A/N: in 1968 ten dollars was the equivalent of sixty) bucks,"

"Good _Lord_! He must have had a budget for you zen!"

"He spent all this money on this night, Doc, and I think it was even all he had…"

"He must love you, Lawrence,"

"He bought this old ass expensive wine, right? Like seriously, it was—"

"Expensive?"

"I don't think Luc's even bought Ma wine that pricey,"

"Sounds like you vere his prince for a night, oder?"

"I—I did somethin' really bad, Doc…" Scout scratches behind his neck, growing embarrassed as the faults in the man's face form an expression of weary anticipation from the older German. "…the waitress, right? She was comin' onto him hard, that bitch,"

"Scout…"

"And I caused a scene. She wrote her number down, and I lost it. I took it out on him real bad, said all this shit in front of everybody, and tore his car up, then I jumped,"

"VAT?! VHERE?!"

"I jumped into the Missouri River…"

"_Lawrence_," Heinrich gasps, and the quiet that settles between them does enough to express the man's disbelief as well as Scout's embarrassment. "I ruined the night, I ruined the suits—he spent so much on my suit, and his was even _Armani_, hundreds of bucks, he bought it in Italy. I shot the van to Hell and—"

"Goodness gracious,"

"All I can remember is jumpin', I was too drunk for anything else. He jumped in after me and swam for forever tryin' to find me, and apparently I got a crowd watchin' and he got a ticket for causin' a disturbance, and did CPR on me for forever, thinkin' I was dead,"

"_Lawrence_…"

"I passed out, and woke up again at around three A.M., right? Coughin' and shit, sore ass throat, Jack makes me tea and soup and he's white, and I mean like _paper fuckin' white, Doc_, I could tell he'd been cryin',"

The German simply holds his face in his hands. "I ain't ever seen Jack cry before, Doc, but I knew he had been,"

"Scout…"

"I couldn't even look at him. He brought me the food and told me to sleep, but I couldn't fuckin' sleep after all that. I felt fuckin' _terrible_, Doc, I hurt him so bad,"

"_Meine Guete_…"

"So I'm lyin' there wide awake, and I could see a light on underneath the door, in the sitting room. It's not big, 'n can barely fit the armchair and coffee table, right?"

"Sure,"

"I could tell he was sittin' in it, and I could hear voices, like he was listenin' to the radio. But even though none of us weren't sayin' nothin' I knew we were both focusin' our energy on each other and the same thing. So I got up. I wrapped the blankets around me 'cause I was cold as fuck, and I got up and I spoke to him,"

"Vat did you say? Vat could you _possibly_ say?!"

"That I loved him, and that I was sorry,"

"And did it…vork?"

"You know that kinda angry parents get? Like when they don't yell, but they're quiet and they ain't got an expression on their faces, and they don't even look you in the eye?"

"I suppose…"

"When he finally looked at me, I fuckin' regretted it,"

"It is understandable he vas so upset, however,"

"I ain't disputin' that, Doc, not at all—but no matter what I fuckin' did, it wasn't good enough—no sorry was good enough,"

"Zen vat?"

"He exploded. In the car, he just—he fuckin' exploded at me. I couldn't say nothin'. We argued a little, 'cause I told him! I told him I was sorry, I was tryin', I'd do anything to get him to forgive me, but it wasn't good enough,"

"I cannot say I blame him, Lawrence,"

"And he told me it was over, that he didn't want me anymore, he told me to pack my shit and never come to the camper again,"

"Jack said zis?!"

"Yeah, Doc,"

"Zen vat?"

"Well he meant it, that's for sure. He threw me my suitcase, and called me a tosser, told me he was done with me,"

"Vas he upset?"

"That quiet kind of upset. He wasn't sayin' nothin', he was stony faced as shit and quiet as Hell,"

"Good _Lord_,"

"He told me it was all a mistake,"

"You two did not even last two veeks,"

"I—I tried, Doc,"

"Perhaps you are simply not ready to be in a relationship,"

"But I don't wanna lose him, Doc!" Scout snaps, though shaking his head quietly and giving himself a chance to calm down. "I guess I blew that though, huh?"

"I am afraid so, Lawrence,"

"Three years of friendship, and I fucked it up in one night,"

"Maybe one day he vill forgive you, but to expect more zan zat," Heinrich begins, though Lawrence begins to pace slowly, eyes lowered at the ground. "I am afraid zat I am not too optimistic about anyzing mending itself out of zis in ze future,"

"Yeah,"

"I am sorry, Lawrence, but as I told you zat day at ze diner, perhaps it is not meant to be. After all, he _is_ a RED, perhaps ze time meant for you two to be togezer has come and gone…" Heinrich explains solemnly, letting his voice drop however as Scout nods curtly. "Everyzing happens for a reason,"

"Yeah, that's life, huh?" Scout chokes quickly, though the young man's tears prove to be faster. "Ach, Junge…" Heinrich sighs before rising from his chair and taking the young man into a soft, fatherly hug, Scout finding no further need to hide it all and sobbing quietly into the man's cleanly, dry cleaned coat. Trying his best not to subject the jacket to secondary usage as a tissue, Lawrence sniffs harshly before resting his head against the shoulder of the older man. "Let it out, Junge, zere is nozing vrong viz a healzy cry," Heinrich sighs, patting his youngest comrade on the back. "I understand it is difficult and I sympazise, losing your love cannot be easy, but you cannot say your actions were ze visest, nor can you blame ze man's decision,"

"H-he said all I do is _hurt_ him,"

"Ach, ve boz know zat is not true, ozervise he vould not have fallen for you,"

"He s-said he was d-done with me,"

"Give it time, Lawrence, give it time,"

Heinrich's eyes shoot up quickly as the door to the medibay parts loudly, the metal barricades retracting in an agonizing screech of metallic friction. A sudden reminder for the doctor to grease the gears to the door, he notes. "Pardon, am I interrupting a moment?"

A soft, inquisitive voice carries on the booming trail of noise from exactly where the piercing door had left off, a strange contrast in sound and intensity though no more pleasant on the ears all the while. Scout straightens himself and wipes his puffy eyes with the back of his flushed hands, lightheaded as his congested head tips the balance of his equilibrium. "Guten Tag, Herr Marino," Heinrich states with neither an undertone of warmth nor animosity to fill the sound of his voice, peering over his glasses at the thin man who enters the medibay as if treading on silken ground, bedecked in delicate, golden shoes. "Honestly, good Doctor, I feel as if I am intruding and by doing so I have to wonder if perhaps now is not the time to engage you in any sort of conversation," the man's swift, lightly spoken words, drizzled with light but noticeable hints of an Italian accent, match the man's step in what the German had always regarded to be hedonistic regality. The unmasked man with his sleek, gelled curls, square jaw, and green eyes had all come together to form the profile of one charming man by the name of Dmitri Marino.

A spy of BLU, serving mostly in the offices of the Administrator herself, the fellow European always commanded an air about him that suggested he held himself to be superior over his colleagues, as if he alone were the reason for BLU's success in recent years. Scout had hardly seen the man outside of moments such as these, subtle pockets of surprise in which the man had been able to slither his way into the conversation. Though no matter how kindly his demeanour suggested the man to be, Scout could tell that within himself festered the biggest ego man could possibly ever come to know, and now was no different. "Vat is vrong, do you need medical assistance?"

"No, Herr Doctor, I had simply heard the rumours that you and Mikhail had returned home earlier than the rest of our comrades from Rick's ranch; I was curious as to whether or not the medibay was open, is all—consider this particular visit nothing short of my own curiosity leading me in for a brief _hello_," the man chuckles, Heinrich raising a skeptical eyebrow, though he doesn't bother to question the man's motive for entering the bay any further."Oh dear, what's wrong with him?"

"_Forget it_, Marino, it does not concern you," Heinrich snaps, handing the young man a bag of bird feed and gesturing him silently toward the cages. "Lawrence if you could please feed ze birds, zey have been cooing and it is zeir lunch time, do not forget to run zeir food under ze tap, Gallileo is allergic to dust,"

"Now Doc, I must say I find it quite insulting that you would insinuate that the young man's wellbeing is not of my concern," Dmitri gasps, placing a soft hand at his chest, trailing it over the soft cashmere of his dark blue shirt tucked primly into the waist of his slacks. "After all should the young Scout prove to be so mentally unstable that he cannot _Scout_, then I am afraid I would have to call in Pauling for a company inspection, and I know how much you adore the woman,"

Heinrich scoffs.

"She's really a doll, a beauty of a woman, I don't understand what you do not like about her. Honestly, try working in the same building with the woman for as long as I have, see how long _you_ can last without keeping _your_ hands off her! But the sexual divinity of Miss Ingram's _aides_ is not the concern of my redirected focus, but rather the reason as to _why_ Little Larry is so broken, throwing grains to doves," Dmitri sighs sadly, the Bostonian turning to glare at the Italian. "My name ain't Little Larry, and it sure as Hell ain't one you're allowed to call me,"

"Snippy—right—in any case I'd still like to know the cause of your breakdown,"

"Home, Marino," Heinrich answers quickly, Lawrence paying the two men no mind and continuing to chuckle at the birds who flutter playfully in their cage. "He vas zinking of home and needed someone to talk to,"

"I suppose it would make sense for you to double as the overseer of _mental health_ as well, though I'd always placed Rick as being the listener and the rationaliser. A real bright man with a real good head on his shoulders, no? Speaking of _home_, I must say I find it interesting that Scout did not accompany the rest of the team to Rick's for leave?"

"Vat is so curious about zat, Marino, he vas simply visiting his own _home_,"

"Ahah, I see, and _why_ again are you speaking in place of him?"

"He's right, Dmitri," Scout barks in response.

"Vere vere _you_?"

"Me?! Well I must say I did not _have_ the luxury of spending the last two weeks in Bella Italia—for you see, my job requires that I be here at all times, keeping a watchful eye out for the Administrator, as well as perform simple tasks she leaves up to me—nothing you'd consider worth the time it takes to explain even if I had the clearance to discuss it with you. Also note that the birds are unsanitary and should not be kept in the base, _in the medibay no less_,"

"Ze fighting is destroying zeir habitat, Marino, I could not sit by and vatch Jane's rockets pummel at zeir trees any longer!"

"Regardless, the medibay is not a _bell tower_. If the doves are not gone by time I return in a month's time I can assure you Miss Ingram will be notified, and Miss Pauling, your favourite—_our_ favourite, shall be making a personal visit,"

"Tell her I have no time for your appointments,"

"Well I shall find time, then. Mister Fitzpatrick I do hope to see you have sorted yourself out when I return, and Mister Schmelzer, I will be informing TF Industries about the state of the Medibay—among other such curious things like Mister Fitzpatrick's whereabouts during the last two weeks. Either way I bid you all a wonderful day, and wish you all a very successful attempt at invading RED territory this coming Friday," the Italian smirks before giving them each a final look over, the door to the bay sliding shut much quicker than the man had opened it initially. "Ach, zat man!" Heinrich spits, brushing the forearms of his coat aggressively as if with the motion was swept the traces of who was arguably the doctor's least favourite comrade on the team. "I svear I cannot _stand_ him!"

"Yeah, he's always been a bit of a fishy guy,"

"Lawrence, is everyzing okay?" the doctor asks affectionately, turning his attention to the young man who tilts the seed in his hand carefully, taking care to see they land neatly into the confines of the feeding cup. "Yeah," he nods quietly, though not before wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand and giving a great sniff. "I just don't know what to do, you know?" he continues, shutting the door to the cage and curling his fingers around the slim metal bars, folded and coiled in between their gaps. "I mean, spendin' time with Jack's pretty much what I've been doin' around here since day one,"

"Vat?! _Nein_," Heinrich tisks, spreading parchment paper across the surface of his work station and dropping what appeared to be a human pancreas onto the planete table with a wet and heavy plop. "You sleep in your barrack all ze _time_!"

"Yeah, but I spent just as much time in the van with Jack as I do here, you know,"

"Trust me, I _do_, and I do not like it,"

"What don't you like about it?" Scout asks nervously, the German scoffing and rolling his eyes aggressively. "I don't _know_, maybe ze vay you spend _too much time_ viz your enemy who is also your lover, and zat by _sleeping_ viz him and having to get up and rush back to ze base in time for roll call everyday you put yourself in danger?!"

"Yeah well, you ain't gotta worry 'bout that anymore, I guess,"

"I know it vill take time to let him go, time to get used to it, but try to be zankful you had time viz him at all,"

"Even my first day I ran into him, Doc. I mean, it wasn't like we was shittin' out friendship rainbows and becomin' penpals, but we definitely took notice of each other,"

"Zese are zings I should not be hearing as your doctor and colleague, Scout, your recklessness vorries me,"

"I mean, I feel like I can hardly count three months in a row where I went the _whole_ time without spendin' time with him, whether we was hatin' each other or not,"

"Vell perhaps it is for ze best, Lawrence; now you can focus on your mission. Not to mention you vill no longer have a need to sneak from your barrack in ze middle of ze night."

"I feel like you don't even feel bad for me," Scout pouts, standing suddenly in a rising, unexpected fit of frustration, the German chirping a sharp "No!" as he turns from his scientific endeavours, looking the young, distressed man sincerely in the eye. "_No_, Scout, zat is not ze case," he adds tiredly, wiping the lenses of his spectacles with the dirtied hem of his white labcoat. "But I cannot help but see zis as an opportunity for you to be zankful you have not lost your _life_ viz ze vay you go about your romance,"

"Says _you_," Lawrence snaps softly, puffing his cheeks and imitating the soft whistle of Socrates as the pips about in an attempt to catch his attention. "The guy who freakin' abandoned his own country to be together with a Jewish Soviet,"

"It—it is _because_ of my perspective zat I am so desperate to varn you, Lawrence. I have seen so many zings because I let love get in ze vay of my rationale; I _too_ can say a prayer under my breaz zat my fraternization viz Mikhail has not cost eizer of us our lives,"

"I guess…"

"I know, it is _hard_, and I sympazise viz you, _really_, but I really zink it vould be a good idea to put it behind you for now,"

"Yeah, okay, Doc, like the way you would have put Mikhail behind you just 'cause some goose stepper on the radio told you Jews are bad, huh?"

"Lawrence, I have been in your very position and I simply fear zat you too vill end up…'

"What, Doc, end up _where_,"

"Forget it, forget it, I do not even vant to talk about it,"

"Well…alright then," Scout sighs, looking the weary German over as he stares blankly at his wrist, closing his eyes heavily and tugging the sleeve of his jacket to fall over it once more. "Go get your rest, Scout…you vill not get any better in condition viz ze vay you are running around; doctor's orders,"

"Alright…"

"And try not to be too vorried, because even if you are not togezer, zat does not mean you are not in love."

-

"_Lawrence, I cannot afford to have you keep falling behind!_" the German spits over the sound of flying shells, Jane shrieking manically as he dodges an exploding rocket aimed at his feet, eyes glowing with an impenetrable sheen as the point which they all rush to take slowly transitions from a gleaming red to a rich blue. "I ain't, Doc," Scout heaves in between harsh, violent coughs, the young man even going so far as to lose his footing and sink to his knees, clutching his chest. "You never coulda capped without me, I'm _here_!"

"Lawrence, you can barely run!"

Heinrich turns his attention away from the Bostonian only because another whistling shell just barely grazes past himself and the Pyro he pockets, exploding into the parched soil, setting it into a small blaze of destruction before their very eyes. Sure enough the young man still stands weakened on the point, clutching his chest as if suctioning his hand against his breath prevented him from losing the pace of his fluttering heart and uneven gasps for air through the wall of sickly mucus that builds up and infects his ability to properly fight. His clothes, warn, tattered, charred and even burned off in certain parts of the fabric, gives Scout the appearance that he dons the remains of a begrimed flag and not any sort of protective garment like in actuality. Rushing toward him, the man produces his medigun from his hip, powering the hose up with a charging drone of energy, kneeling himself so he's level with the coiled figure."_Scout, honestly, I zought I told you to get some rest_—" he closes his eyes as yet more shells fly their way, each bang shocking the dispenser an anxious Rick tries profusely to rig up for the rest of the team, hidden behind a flimsy and horribly structured shack. The push had been reckless, but lucky enough. With Jane head of the battalion and Mikhail bringing up the rear with the inhibited Lawrence, the advantageous BLUs had scraped by with distracting the aggressive REDs just long enough to let the Russian and his comrade cap the center depot in a streak of aligning blessings none of them in their right minds had seen in their fateful stars.

"Doc, I swear I did,"

But Heinrich doesn't respond, concentrating on directing the warm radiation onto the young man's weakened frame, Scout instantly relaxing as the heated rays seep into his skin and for a second steal away from him the ailments of sickness. His cheeks, pallid and free from any of the natural pinkness that normally flushed his youthful skin, Scout swears he sees himself grow whiter as he coughs up yet more of the infection in his lungs, sucking the gluttonous phlegm from his cheeks and spitting it so it glistens on the surface of the soil next to him.

"If it weren't for me you wouldn't be cappin'!"

"Lawrence you are not fit to go any furzer!"

"Fuck that, Doc, I ain't gonna stay behind!" the young man argues firmly, coughing yet again into his elbow. "'If I ain't fit then y'all ain't getting' nowhere, 'cause it ain't like you're gonna get any cappin' done without me,"

"Doc!" Rick sputters, hobbling as if sprinting on uneven, jagged rubber. The southerner calls the man yet again, placing a pudgy hand to root his hard hat atop his head. The clanking of his tools stand out sharper and bolder than even the flare of the rockets and the gunfire itself, and as the older Engineer nears them, both the Scout and Medic know his formidable expression does not harbour any good news. "Now I ain't a man to cry wolf, but we've got ourselves in a might of jam, and I reckon it's gonna be a Hell of a ride weaslin' our way out of it,"

Had Scout the energy he would have groaned at the statement, but instead he closes his eyes, falling dully against the cool metal of the point; his head and ears throb, but regardless the closing of his eyes does him much good. "We've pushed too far, Sawbones, and I can't get a moments' time to even get a little sentry goin',"

"Take it up viz Jane, I am not ze one zroving ze commands!" Heinrich barks, taking the waves off Scout for only a second in order to point them onto the portly, overalled man who stands before him. "If ve have pushed too far, discuss it viz him, I cannot do anyzing about it ven you all are getting injured left and right,"

"Jane's engine's runnin' but he sure as Hell ain't drivin' it, and if somebody doesn't do somethin' then I'm afraid he's leadin' us head on into a slaughterhouse,"

"Ach," Heinrich growls, taking the protective helmet from off the man's balding head, surveying it gently for wounds or points of trauma. "Do you all not see I am tending to an ill Lawrence?!"

"I saw that, Doc, 'course I did, we _all_ did, none of us are blind," Rick grumbles looking Scout caringly in the eye. "You alright son?"

"Yeah, sure thing, Hardhat…"

"…Look, Heinrich, our current choices are to either keep pushin' forward like this—even though doin' so wouldn't leave us any time to regroup—or we all fall back and defend this point before they come back, stampedin' and tryin' to take it back,"

"Naturally I vould suggest ve fall back!"

"Then that way I can at least get a dispenser and sentry goin'!"

"Vell—get started, I vill ask Mikhail to talk to Jane,"

"Here's our next problem, I'm all out of metal,"

"_Ach_!"

"I know, Doc, my news just ain't gettin' any better, thing is, there's some right in RED's convenient little depot, right over there,"

"I see it!"

"_But_ they've got that son of a bitch Sniper lined up, right in the attic—if anyone were to try stretchin' across the field they'd be dead faster than a slug racin' along in the Indy 500,"

"So zen vat?! I don't understand vat I should do! I am saving my Uber for ze right moment!"

"If you can get Lawrence here all nice and patched up I'm sure he can sprint and grab me that box before that little camper can even set up his little tent,"

Heinrich glances at the blanching young man, who would usually have no objection to the plan; but as he was less than healthy, and no longer too secure in the knowledge that the Australian would not harm him in accordance with his feelings for the Bostonian, he hesitates to give the two men leaning above him a nod of approval."Fine, ve vill do it,"

"Doc—Doc _no_—"

"You vill be fine, Scout, you and I boz know ze Sniper vould never hurt you," Heinrich assures Lawrence cryptically, sharing with him a meaningful expression before digging in a large medikit. "I have somezing here, it should clear you up,"

"Why didn't you give it to me before?!"

"It's a needle, Lawrence,"

"What?! _FUCK NO_—!"

"Rick, hold him down!" the German snarls, and together the two men successfully pin down the struggling scout who yelps from pain as a thick syringe plunges into the young man's veins, Scout screaming as a thick, brown liquid enters his bloodstream. "What in the world is that, Doc?!"

"It's a mixture I have been vorking on," the German explains, rubbing Scout soothingly in an attempt to calm the Bostonian's nerves. "Morphine and liquefied radiation from ze medigun. It vorks as a temporary Uber, zough vere ze Uber grants invincibility, zis here only makes you _feel_ invincible,"

"Meanin'?"

"Meaning zat as long as Lawrence keeps his eyes on ze metal and hightails it, he should be safe from ze Sniper's line of sight,"

"But he's so weak, Doc!"

"He von't feel it if ze injection vorks as it should,"

"As it should?! Now don't take this the wrong way, Doc, but I can't say I'm all too sure about injectin' mystery into a sick little thing like him, 'specially if you don't know how he'll react to it,"

"He vill be fine, ze Sniper vill not hurt him," Heinrich snaps, Mikhail rushing to the crowd slowly forming on the already captured point, the Russian eyeing them all inquisitively and bringing his minigun to his chest. "Mikhail, please tell Jane to halt progress, zat ve cannot push under zese conditions. Ve need time near ze dispenser, half of us are out of ammunition,"

"Heinrich, you know Crazy Jane do not listen to plans! Anytime we try it does not work!"

"Tell him zen zat I vill not move forvard if zey do, zat I refuse to heal,"

"Now Doc, I think you and I both know Crazy Ole Jane ain't a nickname we toss around at the base for kicks, he'd still push with or without medical support,"

"Look at ze rest of us, Rick, no one vould follow ze man to suicide no matter how hard he were to scream; ze rest of us may be insane, but novhere _near_ as delusional as he!" Heinrich shouts, struggling to lift Scout to his feet. "Heinrich,"

"He may choose to push vizout me, but I can guarantee ze rest of you vould not be so foolish," Heinrich explains with finality, Mikhail lifting the young man with whom the German still struggles in one quick swoop. "Then I stay behind with you, Heinrich," he growls, as if the sternness of his voice were meant to drive home his point."Of course, Mikhail, I vould not let you go vizout me," the man smiles weakly, rising to his feet and clasping a hand on Scout's shoulder. "How do you feel, Junge?"

"_Dude, I could take on the fuckin' world…_" Scout exhales blissfully, his body slack and loose, his eyes rolling pleasurably in the back of his head."You only have so long before ze effects vear off, Lawrence. Grab it now vhile ze paz is clear, do not vorry if ze Sniper catches sight of you," Heinrich growls encouragingly, tilting the young man's head to face a metallic, shadowed depot nestled just beyond the choke point, a formidable fortress guarded by the impossible. "He vould never dare to hurt his Lawrence."

Heinrich's breath, hot, shaky, and gusty in the cavity of Scout's congested ear, still fills him with a heroic euphoria, an inexplicably uplifting galvanization. He runs as if tripping through clouds, weightless and unanchored to any ground despite the physics behind his mass and a stratosphere through which he metaphorically traipsed. Even as the empty, steady dirt of the alternate flank route appears to speed in a sepia mesh of light beneath his winged feet, the pebbles and stones wobble as if rocked by a sudden overwhelming fit, destroying with it any pretense of tectonic solidarity. Suddenly it didn't seem to matter that his eyes were puffed to slits, his nostrils clogged to pinpricks, his chest bottlenecked with pale, light green mire and ooze. Even as a violent rupture escapes from Scout's prickling, chapped lips, he finds his jump over the naturally dug fissure to be as agile and fleeting as the deceptive, nonexistent sky through which he soars. In front of him, the foreground swirls as if composed of smoky, frothing milk, bubbled over and boiled to a point of such extremity that everything around him that was perceptible has been reduced to a gaseous contrail. Should he twist too quickly, his vision blurs. But the smudging of his vision wasn't a sluggish, inebriated impediment, but rather a side effect of the truly intoxicating illusion that he, Lawrence, was as untouchable as they come.

He doesn't notice the scream of approaching REDs—the Demoman and Soldier, to be exact—nor their sudden sprint to the young man with the invulnerable flesh. Even the red dot, swiveling about the window like a spastic fly avoid the swat of a heavy human hand, is quickly forgotten as it temporarily blinds the young man, the man responsible for the laser's visibility bringing it with marvelous precision to center itself watchfully on Scout's forehead. The slight shifting in the window—a result of his watcher's sudden twitch as it hits him heavily just _who_ it was that was breaking into an explosive rigged compound without backup whatsoever—even goes unnoticed by Scout as his smirk tightens across his lips, his eyes locking their sight onto a small, cork box of metal and screws, the very materials necessarily to fabricate the dispenser Rick needed."Lawrence, you bloody idiot," Jack grumbles to himself as he zooms his scope in just enough to catch the weaving shadow, casting itself against the wall and windows of the darkened depot. The Australian lowers his frame in the creaking attic of the barn lying just opposite of the warehouse, falling back deeper into the shadows. "You bloody fuckin' idiot."

_"Caught 'em like a twitchy rabbit, lad!"_

Tavish throws a salute to the Soldier who stands a few meters away, taking a swig of the glass bottle clutched in his fist. Sniper's eyes widen and the sunglasses, snug upon the bridge of his nose, slide forward and dangle luckily on the tip of it, the Australian jumping as within his scope he sees the Scotsman's stickybombs placed strategically along the foundation of the warehouse's woodwork. _"Bloody—"_

The man curses under his breath as his heart races, his palms so indisputably sweaty he has no choice but to lower the heavy rifle he cradles within them. Tavish, engaged in a conversation with their Medic distracting enough so as to prolong the detonation of the building, seems to take no notice of the dashing Australian who nears him, the man cut and bruised due to the magnitude of his escape—he'd been scraped by irregular planks whilst skipping whole flights of stairs in the shack of a building in an attempt to get to the battleground before it had been too late—

"Y'mae got two o'those eyes, lad, but ye got half th' brain!" Tavish bites back at the shrieking Jane, who brandishes his shovel wildly at the man he once considered to be his other half. He stands proudly, chest puffed out and his fists curled at his hips, his menacing grin leering at the BLUs a few hundred feet away. "Aye, Jack me old lad," he grins kindly, giving the stunned Australian a strong, friendly pat on the shoulder. "We caught ourselves thaer Scout! Looked awfully Peely-Wally! I im'gine the old gripes o'er thaer would be willin' tae pay a _real_ fortune for his safe return,"

"What d'you mean, mate," Jack begins darkly, Tavish indulging in warm laughter before waving an innocent hand at the man who usually considered himself to be on excellent terms with his comrade. "Nothin' tae risky,thought maybe'd be a bit of ae interest in ae wee cash grab—liven things up ae little, aye? T'e battle's been's slow as rained out porridge on a winter night; thae pay me enough, thae get 'im back 'nd I won't blow t'e thing tae smithereens!" he laughs once more before imitating an explosion with his arms, Jack's eyes widening nervously. "Y—Y'mean _blowin' it with him inside_?!"

"Thae're talking aet o'er now—Ae proposed 'em with t'e aedea—we'll see what choice thae make!"

"Wos'e doin' in there—"

"Scramblin' around, lookin' for maetal, prolly! He' not quite on top o'his game, slinkin' about like a slug dipped aen salt—_quite a dashing Scout, ey m'boy?!_"

"Tavish," Jack begins quickly, breathing heavily and darting his eyes nervously before clearing his throat, inspiration hitting him suddenly and violently. "Their Pyro—"

"What about 'im?!"

"He—he slipped past the blockade you've got—go take care o'him,"

"What?! Ae thought we agreed no one crossed lest thae wanted thaer little Scout gibbed!"

"NO!"

"What is it, lad?!"

"He's leakin' gasoline on the base, go back, _please_, take 'im out, mate, go—go get the Medic 'nd get goin'!" Jack shouts, Tavish raising an eyebrow but slowly making a sprint toward the base nonetheless. "I'll go hide 'nd watch for stragglers attemptin' t'rescue him, now _go_!" Jack shouts, wasting no time in kicking the warehouse door in once Tavish is out of sight. "_GOD FUCKIN' DAMMIT, LAWRENCE_!" Jack bellows, kicking over crates in an impressive demonstration of his strength, the realization that not much time remained between finding him and Tavish's eventual return. "_I SWEAR T'BLOODY GOD, I'LL KILL YA FOR FIGHTIN' IN YOUR CONDITION Y'LITTLE SHIT!_" he roars, venturing deeper into the back and throwing looks over his shoulder to assure the Scotsman had not returned. "Oh _what_, y'ignorin' me now?!" he asks hysterically, though his stomach plummets as it hits him he shouts a dead air.

"Where are ya, Lawrence," he asks sternly, humourlessly, crawling on his hands and knees as the ceiling dips too low for his height. "I ain't in here t'hurt ya, Scout, he's got the place _rigged with bombs_ 'nd you'll be done if y'don't—_he's asleep_…"

Sniper rolls his eyes at the young man, unconscious and slumped over a stocked pile of splintery crates, the small cork chest of metal tucked against his chest."_Hope scrap metal was worth it, kid_," Jack rolls his eyes before grunting, pulling Scout against him and dragging him out as best he can without bumping his head, lifting him into his arms with his knees as he checks outside to make sure the rest of his mates were preoccupied with the bluff about the Pyro sabotaging the base."_He's out cold…_…" he grumbles, craning his head and stealing an apprehensive look at the knocked out young man, bringing a hand to his forehead and feeling as a weight lifts itself from him, the realization settling in right away he was, thankfully, still _alive_.

"_Well bugger me, I can't jus' take y'back t'your BLUs…_," Jack shakes his head, looking up to the sky, and finding that, for the first time in all his twenty years of questioning God and the validity of his existence, he stares up, beyond the clouds and any realm of doubt, begging Him for any sort of divine aid he could obtain from the Heavens."_I can't leave y'here, either…_" Jack swears again, the Australian peering around him in a full circle, curling his arm under Lawrence's locked knees in an attempt to better support him against his frame. "Right."

Jack coughs, brushing dust and soot from the young man's face as he carries him gingerly back up the rickety steps, hoping with a hint of dread that they would not give way with any added weight from the young man. Yet the higher he climbs, Jack finds that his mind shoots at him only a million, fast paced, scathing remarks about how foolish he was to bring the young man into his nest. Lawrence was inarguably beyond enemy lines, well beyond the point where Heinrich, the only one who knew of their romance besides Luc, could attempt to venture in unnoticed and take the Bostonian off his hands and back to his own comrades. Rightly so, Jack notes; Scout, in his condition, had no business fighting, and each second spent plunged so deeply into the fray was a second for with the Catholic young Lawrence more likely than not sputtered a soft prayer, hidden under his raspy voice and weak, scratchy strain on his vocal chords. "God Dammit…" Jack growls indignantly as he strips himself of his vest, draping it across Lawrence's frame and using the young man's own shoulder bag as a makeshift pillow—it would have to do given the circumstances. Sandwiched in between the wall and the protection of Scout's calves, he uses his seated figure to cloak the still sleeping Scout who coils like a breathing apostrophe at his feet, the scope at his eye now watchful for teammates of his own.

-

The eruption triggered by Tavish's rig on the depot was so violently startling Jack found himself yelping from a sudden and deeply rooted fear, lunging himself downward to cover the resting Scout, who still slept on his side, knees bound to his chest. Chunks and wedges of wood and metallic projectiles fling through the air at formidable angles and trajectories, razor sharp, burning, piercing the air with soft whistles as if the airborne chunks of death were more akin to duds of firecrackers.

Death seemed to be taking it's sweet time. Too long of a time, in fact.

_"Maybe all that duck 'nd cover drivel 'n school had it's uses, seein' I'm still breathin',"_ Jack slowly cranes his head upward, frowning instantly at the sight of the thick hazes of billowing smoke and its hastened rise toward the sky, visible directly out the window he hitherto used to carry out stealthy vigilance. Following the visual of smoldering destruction is its relative, the keen smell of ashy matter. The man chokes and clutches his throat as flakes of charred industrial scraps corrupt the air quality, the man literally breathing in everything the warehouse contained. He brings a hand to cover Lawrence's nose, craning his neck all the while to check the condition of the depot—though nothing remained, except a few crackling embers and a scorched ring of black, an unknowing mark of where it used to be. "Tavish, you idiot! That was our only depot outside of the base, you drunken klutz!"

"Aye! Ae haven't had a lick tae drink aen ae while, now!"

"You took out the supply drunk, you bumbling, disgrace of a Scot!"

"No need tae bring ma family name intae it, laddie!"

"_Shit, Soldier's gonna be pissed the rest o'the day_…" Sniper grumbles to himself, lowering his eyes from the arguing men below, watching as Luke, their Pyro, attempts to extinguish the flames. "Now ae mean aet, mate, I di'n't set ae thing off nae—"

"He's tellin' the truth, dude, I think BLU' Heavy might have shot at it—they're tryin' to regroup for an ambush,"

"Aye, ae depot doesn't mean ae thing when yae think thaer Scout waent up aen flaems with aet,"

"Shit, you mean you got their Scout, too?! High five, bro!"

Sniper grumbles under his breath as Samuel, RED's Scout, cheers with the Soldier and Demoman haughtily. "I always hated that fucker." Jack scowls, the man admittedly defensive of the Bostonian despite _hating the fucker_ at the moment himself. "That oughta slow those BLU bastards down, then; they wanted a push? Hope they can take a shove like losin' that pussy little bitch," The man starts as Lawrence moans a little, shifting and stretching, bringing his palms flat against the dusty attic floor, instantly coughing as he takes in his first few conscious breaths. "Oi!"

Scout jumps, his eyes wavering over Jack's frame as they adjust to his present situation, the young man looking back and forth between the window and the hunched Sniper, cat like in stillness, ferociously on guard. "_QUIT LOOKIN' OUT THE WINDOW BEFORE THEY SEE YOU POPPIN' YOUR HEAD OUT_!" Jack snarls, pushing Scout toward the ground dominantly, eyes scanning the field below to make sure no one noticed his head bobbing in between the soot covered panes, cracked due to the boom of the explosion. "W-where the Hell am I, Jack…?" Scout asks tiredly, rubbing his head and eyes, sniffing a large amount of snot back into his nostrils, gulping as it slides unappetizingly down his clammy throat. "How did I get up here?! And what the Hell's goin' on?!"

"You tell _me_, Lawrence, _you're_ the one sleepin' in the middle o'battles in RED depots like the bright little lamp y'are—"

"Sleepin'?! I didn't fall asleep on _nothin'_, I was goin' to get metal for Rick, and—_aw, shit, man_!" Scout groans out of sudden realization, slapping the palm of his hand with a loud _smack_ against his dusty forehead. "Fuckin' Rick, I—he needed the metal for his dispenser—"

"Well y'found it, 'lright!" Jack barks, glaring unamusedly at the stubborn Bostonian, tossing him the box of metal with an aggressive fling. The box skips carelessly in dull thumps across the floor, Lawrence watching each tumble reproachfully. "I'll have y'know that your arse fell asleep lookin' for it, for whatever Goddamn reason, then the next thing I know Tavish has the thing lined up with stickies, tellin' your comrades he'd blow it up if they tried advancin' without payin' up a little first!"

"Dude, _what_?!"

"'Nd _what d'ya know_, here I am, savin' Lawrence like always!"

"Dude, if you're so fuckin' tired of it, then just let me fuckin' die next time!" Scout spits, dusting off his snot soaked blue shirt. "Since it's obviously what you fuckin' _want_!"

"Don't even get a thank you,"

"Look Jack, I ain't got time to make this all about you right now?! I mean, _thanks_, but I ain't got no clue how long I've been out, or—or what's goin' on down there with my friends,"

"Look at _you_, pretendin' like y'give any sort o'shit about anyone other than yourself,"

"Fuck you, Jack, " Scout snaps, tossing the man his vest aggressively, the man catching it and holding it to his breast. "I ain't got time for your fuckin' butthurt when my comrades think I'm _dead_, and I ain't even got a clue if _they're_ alive or not!"

"You've got time in the world for everyone 'cept the man you claim t'love,"

"Who the fuck said I loved you?! _Let me out, Jack, move, I ain't kiddin'_—"

"Y'really think I'm gonna let y'out, Lawrence?! 'Case y'forgot you're right deep in RED territory 'nd allegedly _dead_, so walkin' out there'd be a death sentence for you with the whole entire army o'RED down there!" Jack shouts, Scout clearly hesitating, though his tense frame loosens as he begrudgingly heeds the man's words, his eyes never once letting up on their glaring, sideways dart on Jack's own formidable expression. "Why don't you jus' _sleep everythin' off_, let _me_ take care of it like always," Jack snaps, Scout clutching his stomach and sliding his back against the corner of a wall out of sight from the window. He chews on his lip, coughing wetly as Jack paces about nervously, his shoes hollow against the dried, brittle floor. "Dude, stop pacin' you're makin' me nervous,"

"Of all the things t'set y'on edge 'bout this situation, 'nd it's me _walkin' back 'nd forth_,"

"Look, can you just stop with the snark and the stompin'?! I'm tryin' to think,"

"Hmph—_you, think_—what in the world could y'possibly be thinkin' ab—"

"How the fuck I fell asleep,"

"Wow, what a _brain teaser_," Jack snaps, narrowing his eyes at the young man. "You're sick 'nd not gettin' enough sleep, then tryin' t'run about, 'course you're gonna wear yourself out,"

"Dude, it's more than that, okay?! I was worn out, but I wasn't full blown tired,"

"You were coughin' about 'nd staggerin' behind your mates! Don't think I didn't see ya out there!"

"Then you know I was still _doin' my job_ at least, it ain't like I was fallin' asleep completely, Jack. Maybe it had somethin' to do with that injection,"

"What _injection_?!"

"Doc injected me with this _stuff_, I—I dunno, all he said was that it was supposed to make me go faster,"

"What?!"

"He said he never tested it before, so it coulda been that stuff makin' me tired,"

"He's just testin' things on ya in the middle o'battle?! When you're sick?! What in the world would he risk your health for?!"

"Rick needed metal for a dispenser, 'cause we couldn't push the way we were,"

"What?! So then y'mean your Doc's just shovin' needles in ya over some bloody metal?!"

"look at you, _carin'_,"

"Oi, I might as well jus' join BLU, eh?! With the way I'm savin 'nd lookin' out for ya, I do a better job protectin' 'nd lookin' out for ya than any o'them!"

"Dude, they're great friends and always got my back!"

"I'll be havin' words with your Doc, Lawrence,"

"Great, you gonna menstruate all over him too?!"

"I'M ONLY LOOKIN' OUT FOR _YOU_, LAWRENCE! HE COULD HAVE GOT YOU BLOODY KILLED!"

"Don't you fuckin' talk about Heinrich that way, he knows what he's doin',"

"Right, y'look like y'really believe it, green 'nd shaky voiced as y'are,"

"_Jack!_" a shrill, worried hiss calls from the creaking door, both men turning to gaze at their visitor; Jack motions to hide Lawrence in an embrace, the effort fruitless, the young man visible despite the cloak of the Australian's arms around his frame. As his eyes register the thin figure of the towering Frenchman, his figure bedecked in cobwebs and sweat, he knows not whether he should feel eased or just as worried that Luc stands before them as opposed to anyone else; he couldn't afford the man's presence ticking Lawrence off at such a delicate time. "_Where is Lawrence—_"

"What?! Why!" Jack growls, covering the young man's mouth as he goes to retort back at his questioning stepfather, the Spy wrenching his balaclava from his head in one fellow swoop, breathing from his mouth and eyeing the Bostonian in his arms from the corner of his eye. He says nothing, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths in order to calm his pacing heart. Jack slowly draws his hand away from the young man's lips, thankful that Scout remains quiet, save the small growls of aggression that rumble in his chest at the sight of the man. "What's goin' on, Luc—"

"I came up 'ere to ask you zhe same zhing," the man snaps quickly, glaring out the window, leaning the weight of his body upon the tips of his left foot's toes. "Somezhing about my stepson falling asleep inside of a supply post lined wizh Tavish's explosives zhat I now see 'as been reduced to rubble, from what I've managed to gazher,"

"You sure sound concerned as fuck," Scout spits from the gaps of Sniper's arms cradled around his head. "Did you not see zhe way I came _running_ up zhe steps asking where you were?" the older man rolls his eyes, Lawrence pouting and saying nothing in return. "Glad to see you are still alive,"

"Right," Scout smirks again, going to lean his head against Sniper's chest before remembering that perhaps it was no longer in the realm of decency to do so; which was a shame, the man was so warm...

"_Merde_, I will 'ave you know your doctor is negotiating wizh Tavish, 'e appears to be in tears,"

"Shit, what?!" Scout yelps, attempting to break from the Australian's stronghold and scramble to the window himself.

"Sit your bloody arse back down!"

"Let _go_ of me, Jack!"

"You can't jus' _go out there_!"

"You don't own me, you can't tell me what the fuck I can and can't do—_neither_ of you fuckin' can!" Scout yelps, gasping as the Australian expels him violently from his arms. "Fine, y'wanna go out there 'nd get yourself killed?! Be my motherfuckin' guest, Lawrence," Jack growls, Scout snatching his backpack and slinging it moodily over his shoulder. "I'm through with carin'!"

"Then _don't_—the fuck do you want, Luc?!" Scout spits at the man who stands in front of the attic's door, shaking his head at Scout himself. "I did not 'ave intentions of phoning your mozher and telling 'er 'er youngest son died tragically due to 'is recklessness,"

"So what, you're just gonna stand in my way and make me watch while you fuckin' REDs torment my friends?!" Scout whimpers, a shudder racing down his spine as it hits him that his words reduce two of the closest men in his life to nothing but an anagram. "I reckon we are, Lawrence, 'nd y'best be bloody thankful the two of us're willin' t'keep you safe despite the way y'treat us,"

"_I treat you_?! Fuck if you two are delusional fuckers,"

"Lovely Little Lawrence," Luc spits, Jack taking his post near the window.

"Fuck, he's bawlin' his eyes out, mate,"

"'Cause he thinks I'm _dead_, now let me down so I can show him I ain't!"

"And zhen escalate zhe problem furzher by proving you are still alive, emerging from zhe Sniper's post a whole 'alf 'our after your alleged deazh?!"

"Sounds foolproof," Jack scoffs, bringing a tired hand to his face. "It certainly is if 'e is attempting to remedy zhe fact 'e's still breazhing as fast 'e can,"

"Right, just keep talkin' about me like I ain't here,"

"Ignorin' you 'nd your input's the only way we can get anythin' done around here in a mature way,"

"Jack, _please_," Luc sighs, pacing himself, the tense Scout however eyeing the door nervously. "And so keepin' me in here is a better plan?! Either way I'm outta bounds or whatever, what if someone comes up and sees me hidin' up here?!"

"We're tryin' t'think of a way t'get y'out, Lawrence," Sniper growls, Luc and the man sharing a weary look. "What if—pardon if it seems razher 'arebrained—what if I entertain Tavish and zhe Doctor wizh zhe proposition of surrendering?"

"What?!"

"While we discuss zhe conditions of BLU's capitulation, Lawrence sneaks wizh you back to zhe rest of 'is comrades, Lawrence claiming to 'ave been knocked out temporarily by zhe explosion,"

"You mean you want us to surrender?! Like, _surrender surrender_?!"

"Gravel pit ain't worth your life, Lawrence, plus's hardly as if you BLUs don't have the rest o'the region surroundin' conquered; 's hardly a loss,"

"Dude, Jane—Jane would never settle with surrendering, Doc already tried earlier, he's gonna psuh 'til his boot's the last thing left to stand on the fuckin' point,"

"Jane's too busy buildin' a memorial outta stone to the _brave Scout that fell asleep in a warehouse 'nd gave his life over a dispenser_, we hardly knew yer arse,"

"Considering it is I who bureaucratically represents zhis battalion in regards to TF Industries, I can simply forge cancellation of today's attempted siege if need be—zhough I'd razher explore our options before committing fraud on such a level, zhe Administrator would be involved if word got out and zhat would not 'elp,"

"Well if anyone checks the killfeed soon 'nd sees his death wasn't registered, it'll raise some questions, mate,"

"Zhen time is short,"

"Right,"

"Okay," Luc sighs again, exchanging a quick glance with his stepson. "Where are your comrades?"

"On the point—"

"_Which one_?!"

"I dunno, the one on the left—Soldier had it labeled A or somethin',"

"Jack, if I give you my PDA, can you disguise as one of Lawrence's team mates and get 'im back to safety?"

"I dunno a thing 'bout spyin', Luc, I can't operate that thing!"

"Zhe contraption will take care of appearance. You will not need to act, as you will not be trying to convince anyone of anyzhing. You are using it merely as a temporary diversion, so zhat you do not stand out,"

"Yeah, but—the buttons, 'nd knowin' _when_ t'disguise, how long it takes for the shiftin' t'work, I—I didn't exactly graduate from _Spy Academy_, mate,"

"Who cares, Jack, just come on, let's go," Lawrence pipes, tugging gently on his sleeve, Luc digging in his pocket for his cigarette case. "Zhe zhird button from zhe left will bring up a menu and a list of disguises registered wizh zhe identities of BLU's current settings. Zhe green button switches teams and is razher gaudy, take care you do not press it,"

"Got it,"

"Only zis button, and press _only when be'ind cover and when certain you are secluded_, and allow at least four seconds for zhe disguise to take place,"

"'Kay,"

"Do not disguise until Lawrence gives you zhe okay, and follow 'is lead,"

"Oh lord, won't that give me away right away?! That anyone's followin' _his_ command?!"

"Ha ha ha, Jack, you gonna be here all week with those jokes?!"

"I trust you bozh, for some strange reason—Lawrence, stay safe, and Jack, _keep 'im safe_,"

"Where're _you goin'_?!" Lawrence spits, the Frenchman slipping a cigarette from the case before handing the contraption away to the purse lipped Sniper, Luc adjusting his tie. "I 'ave to play my part as zhe negotiator—please remember to tell your team mates zhat you 'ave surrendered and zhat it is imperative zhey do not cause a scene over zhe fact zhat you are truly alive, if I am still discussing zhe terms of zhe surrender when you get back to your base and zhey bring attention to your safe condition, zhen I can assure you zhings will get awkward and much, much more complicated,"

"Wait, I'm confused,"

"It doesn't matter, zhe only zhing you need to worry about is getting back to zhe base safely—Jack, remember zhe controls, and _do not break it, is it expensive_!" Luc nods with finality before slipping through the attic door without another word. "See? He's fightin' for ya,"


	25. Mary Jane

Days, silent, bold, intently hotter in execution than those previous, pass calmly and quickly enough. The very same days Lawrence couldn't help but notice to be comparatively quiet as opposed to the jumbled mayhem at Gravel Pit a week ago. Scout found himself waking earlier than the entirety of his battalion on this particular morning, the clock in the infirmary having read 6:19 AM. The cot like bed showed no pretense of wanting to provide Lawrence with a pleasant night's sleep, thus he settled that slipping from the cotton covers and sitting against the hardbacked chair in the breezy cafeteria would prove to be much more accommodating in any case. Though Lawrence rather liked the mess hall in the gleam of the early morning, actually finding tranquility in silence for the first time in his speech dominated life.

Bright pink sunlight, left behind from the impending sunrise, shines through the paneled windows spaced evenly along the back wall, the grayish blue paint job radiating with a vivacity the fluorescent lights hanging from the wall had never once provided. Without Jane or any of the others in the dining hall at that, Scout relishes in the joy of not having to consult someone for seconds, opening up the window with a rush of freedom as he helps himself to another bowl of lightly sugared corn flakes. Without anyone around to enforce the rule of rationing the sugar packets (a metallic sign bolted to the wall serving as a friendly reminder), he found himself free of a guilty conscious as he grabs _three_, a luxurious handful.

His chair screeches across the dark green linoleum floor, the cool metal of the legs rusted over, the beige paint chipping away to reveal the chilling steel masked just below the artificial colouring. It was the most consecutive amount of time Lawrence had spent in the base without hearing Jane shriek over the Gravel Pit incident; apart from the man's hysterical and seemingly never ending tirades, nothing else had developed from it other than depletion of their resources and a substantial though hardly crippling blow to BLU's war effort. Though the men had gone into battle underprepared and lacking in ammunition (and with a sick Scout), they'd couldn't claim any casualities or other such severe losses, Scout having been able to alert his comrades of his safety shortly before the team's capitulation to RED, orchestrated by the young man's stepfather in an attempt to buy him some time to find to his comrades. Heinrich had returned, shocked from negotiation and the apparent loss of Lawrence, only to look them all in the face and see a wearily grinning Bostonian before him.

Jane had been less than enthusiastic toward the doctor's decision to either submit to RED's surrender or refuse to heal any further, blaming Scout for the catastrophe that had arisen from his daring stunt. Had Heinrich not intervened, claiming it bad for his health, the Bostonian would have been subjected to an entire evening's worth of push ups as punishment, the Soldier willing to oversee that Lawrence conducted the exercises without pause from sun down until morning had the German not deemed it cruel and counter productive.

Regardless, Lawrence hardly slept the following night, the scratchy cot of the infirmary hardly supporting any notion of sleep that may or may not have formulated in the back of Scout's weary mind. He worried that word of his being alive would only complicate things, despite Luc's insistence that this was not the case. RED would check the killfeed anyway to see the young man had not actually parished and would attribute it to him simply having escaped, he explained. As long as Gravel Pit remained their territory and the battle for it was temporarily over, the status of his life on that particular day became a mere hiccup of a memory in all of their tired minds.

The stress of that day had not helped his condition regardless, the after effects of the vaccination having shut the young man down and truly confined him to a bed in the infirmary for a good two days straight. Heinrich had warned him sternly about being careful, now he is healthy enough to not only keep food down, but to also walk to the dining hall himself to eat; after all, it was his first day out of bed, and his first in which he seemed to show any definite improvement. Thus came his permission to eat breakfast alone, otherwise Jane would have certainly lost his mind even further if he knew someone was snooping about the base without direct orders from himself. And for the first time in his life, Scout cherishes his seclusion.

He takes his bowl and saunters to the window, drawing lazy shapes in the condensation with his index finger before sliding it upward, a gust of chilly, dewey air flying in through the gap. The young man looks out for miles about the grounds, remarking silently how one could see Heinrich on the other side of the courtyard through the light fog that flutters about, rising off the surface of a small rivine that flows in between the bases themselves. The medibay's steel partition appears lifted, the older German's grunts of "Ach!" and other such German phrases echoing softly up to Scout, who watches him.

Heinrich gives the birds on his forearm a light jumpstart as they dart into the sky, easily mistakable for furry bullets, swift in their flight. He watches them fade into the transitioning sky, waving at them in their growing distance; Medic knew they would return, they always did. Their weekly hunts never spanned over the duration of the early morning, by noon they were back in bay as per usual. The German man, despite having never been as prideful of his nationality and heritage as those of his generation were infamous for being, upheld the German Standard with pride, a natural lover of error free routine and punctualty.

"Doc!" Scout cries weakly though loudly, his voice still recovering from infection. He sticks his hand out a window, waving the German down, who places his hands on his hips, and even in their distance Scout knows he's scowling.

"_Scout, shut ze vindow, you vill only make yourself even more ill! I did not let you out of ze medibay to open vindows and valk around vizout sveaters!_"

Scout sighs before giving the German a thumbs up and doing as told. He brushes his hand against the film of liquid blurring the otherwise spotess panes of glass, the surface smudging and squeaking, leaving behind soft streaks as the displaced water dries. He smiles softly as he presses his nose against the cool exterior, his eyes focusing slowly on the German man as he slips inside the bay, the partition sliding back down to the ground with a heavy clash.

He opens the window again, though not before tugging the pull over above his head and wrapping the wool scarf Heinrich had given to him around his neck. He looked rather silly, so bundled up in the middle of March, though the nip in the wind as it skids through the large, buzzing base suggests the notion is perhaps not as foolish as he thinks. His fingers numb, the exposed tips not as lucky as the rest of the fingers, tucked away in the sleeve of the dark blue knit curled around the scalding mug of tea he had prepared himself (though not before pouring in another few packets of sugar). Drawing his knees to his chest, he narrows his eyes and marvels silently at how they naturally waver their gaze unto the exterior of RED's base a good mile away. His eyes always seemed to draw themselves onto the usual van parked behind it, a habit of his refined throughout the last couple of years of friendship he'd shared with the Australian to whom the mobile home belonged.

His eyes steal another sweep of RED's quiet base, darting back and forth in sync with the rotation of the beeping sattelites on the building's roof. _'There you are…'_ Scout grumbles to himself, and he can't help but smile softly at the sight of Jack, who sits hunched underneath his prized apple tree, digging near its roots and tending to it delicately. Already he began the upkeeping, even if it wasn't due to bloom until June. With Jane, Mikhail and Heinrich in the man's office, leaning over maps and scrutinizing alternate routes and constructing yet more plans to launch an eventual offensive on Gravel Pit, it left the day free of battle. It would take at least another two for the Administrator to approve the offense. There wasn't a free day the Bostonian had missed with the Australian in a longer amount of time, the man having been firm in his resolve to exclude the Scout from his life the last time he had attempted to make small talk with him before lying ill in the infirmary.

_'Still, it ain't like I can't thank him for what he did last week'_.

Scout smiles at Sniper, who takes a few steps back to admire his blooming tree with what he can only imagine is that wide grin of his Lawrence knew better than anyone else.

_'S all I gotta do, is go and thank him; I ain't gotta stay to chat and I ain't gotta make it a for real thing Just somethin' quick, to tell him thanks'_ Scout nods, wrapping the scarf around his neck and weaving it so it covers all but his eyes and the top of his head for maximum warmth. It would be brief. It would be something, but it would be brief.

-

_Pyrus Malus_ was the only Latin phrase Lawrence had ever bothered to commit to memory. To his credit the young man had optioned for Ancient Greek in high school, yet even then the words of old he'd been required to memorize and decipher had hardly any true subsantial place in Scout's recollection. It was from the outdated Roman tongue which Sniper had derived the name of _Mallory_ for his child of a tree, a triplet to _Majorie_, the van, and _Matilda_, his rifle. She was fully grown, and stood to seventeen feet in height, producing the common red apple and of the semi dwarf variety. Bearing sweet fruit, Scout could easily attribute Jack's youngest _daughter_ to some of his best summer memories, particularly the ones in which the two had sat underneath her branches, curled together and laughing quietly in the middle of the night, careful not to give themselves away.

He remembers distinctly the way his mother had attempted to plant fruit bearing trees of her own during the height of his childhood poverty. His maternal grandmother, who resided with her husband a good fifteen minutes outside of Boston proper by train, had a small plot of land upon which the elderly woman maintained various crops, flowers and trees. Julie had plucked the seeds from Lawrence's applecore, tucking them into her pocket and selecting a patch of her own to sow it. Lawrence remembers watching the seed sprout and grow to a rather impressive entity, though Julie had unknowingly waited to plant the seeds during the same time in which her mother's senility had staggered, thus the tree, along with the rest of his grandmother's vegetation, had been brutally neglected and therefore whithered to nothing by time fall had rolled around.

Jack had always joked that when it was their time to grow old together, he left it up to Scout to take care of Mallory should his mind be unable to properly process the responsibility, as a whole twelve years lied between them. He smiles up at the majesty of the plant as he approaches it, hands in his trouser pockets, the scarf wrapped around his throat and chin fluttering in the cool morning wind as it picks up, piercing subtly at his flesh. Thankful that he took Heinrich's advice and had slipped on the dark blue sweater before setting out to the man bent down and digging at the roots of his tree, Scout smiles as his eyes look up, taking in each light green bud tipped on the snaking branches as individual entities of their own.

"You think she'll bloom soon?" Scout asks the man quietly, careful to step over the small mounds of moist dirt Jack had overturned with his discarded spade. A pair of shears also rest against the trunk, a pile of snipped veins of branches suggesting Jack had been pruning it as well.

"In about a month; same time 's every year…" Jack mumbles, not even bothering to look up from the small indent he'd formed to dignify Scout with the whole of his attention, or to even assure himself it was Scout asking in the first place—not that he didn't know Scout's voice better than anyone else's. "…round when the bees start showin' up; they pollinate the flowers 'nd then the flowers become the fruit…" Jack explains, Lawrence's favourite time of year always having been the same one in which the light pink blossoms sprouted and fluttered to the ground in weightless simplicity; it all seemed so natural, the petals nothing but, yet in the end their descension to the ground was so orchestrated, their biological make up and purpose beyond his control or perception.

"I see you're feelin' better."

Jack's statement neither hints at nor denies the fact pleases or lightens him of any worry, leaving Lawrence with no cue as to whether or not he should keep speaking or turn around and head back to his base. Instead he nods slowly, despite the fact Sniper cannot see the physical act with his back turned to the Bostonian, Lawrence licking at his wind dried lips and tugging his knit tighter against his body. "Y-yeah, Doc always takes good care of me…" Lawrence adds, Jack silent for a whole minute and a half, Lawrence as frozen as the Australian is still.

"He told me once I was like the son he never had,"

"Isn't that somethin'," Jack spits, Lawrence's semi hopeful stare in the older man's direction sloping to resemble crestfallen disappointment instead. Lawrence tucks his bicep into the grip of his other hand, holding it nervously and casting his eyes to the corrugated roots of Mallory, the source of the tree's nutrition spiraling so passionately into the earth the young man actually senses a hint of sea sickness welling in the bottom of his stomach. As he looks at Sniper's cold, stand offish frame, however, he wonders if perhaps his illness didn't stem from _another_ source…

"So what d'you want," Jack grunts, the spade in his hand penetrating the ground at regulatory intervals.

"I-I just kinda realized I never really thanked you for Gravel Pit…" Scout coughs, taking a step backwards as Sniper rises to his feet, brushing off his knees, looking over his shoulder to eye Scout critically. "There're a lot o'things you've never _really thanked me for_," Jack snaps, taking a small bag of fertilizer into his hands and placing it into a wicker basket Scout only just now notices.

"'Nd quite frankly if this is your attempt t'try to get me t'take you back, pleadin' for ya on my knees-"

"This ain't an attempt at _nothin'_ but thankin' you for savin' my life, Jack," Scout growls, coming to regret ever having wanted to speak to the man at all. "Like you always do. That's _it_,"

"Have y'thanked your stepdad yet? I feel like he's jus' as responsible for your breathin' right now's me,"

"I-I'll get around to it," Lawrence snaps, digging his foot into the ground absentmindedly. "Look, this ain't about him, though, this is between you and me," Scout states, watching the man as he collects the rest of his supplies, Jack sparing only a seconds' worth of a glance to eye him back. "Luc's fine, he's _always_ fine, he knows how to talk himself outta shit. It's you that was at risk, Jack, sneakin' in armed buildings and keepin' me in your nest,"

Scout has no real idea where he means to go with his recap, but he awaits Sniper's response quietly nonetheless.

"Not to mention sneakin' me back; it took a lot of guts,"

"Hmph-y'say all this like I wasn't there," Jack chuckles coldly. Surprised, Scout swallows heavily as Sniper, who holds the basket to his chest, doesn't cut the conversation short to head back to the van. Regardless, Lawrence himself had heard enough; he gives the Australian a look up and down before turning on his heel, a few steps put between them before Jack clears his throat. "'Nd you're welcome," he adds, Scout rolling his eyes shortly.

"Well I can tell you don't want me around and I know Doc would give me shit if he knew I was outside and not restin', 'specially 'cause I'm talkin' to _you_,"

"Go get your rest, Lawrence…" Jack advises calmly. "'S no need for you t'be riskin' your neck for me anymore,"

"So then it's okay for you to risk yours for me?" Lawrence questions with a sincerity that actually takes the man aback. "'Cause I think you mighta risked way more than your neck back there, wombat,"

"'S not the same,"

"It ain't ever the same, Jack," Scout huffs before he continues his walk toward the base. "No matter how I try, it just don't matter to you, you always gotta be the exception,"

"Oi, don't-don't put it like _that_, now," Jack whispers, actually striding toward the Bostonian to place a hand on his wool clad shoulder. "I-sorry," he clears his throat, his thumb twisting in the frayed fabric, admiring the checkered print of the warm black shawl wrapped around him.

"I ain't tryin' to _get you to take me back, or wanna be my friend_," Lawrence spits, cleary unremediable in his irritation. "I was just comin' to say thank you, and I did,"

"Lawrence, c'mon now!" Jack growls, holding the young man back gently. "I-I know I was a little snippy, but…" his voice falters, Scout's glare more than enough of an indication Lawrence had no further desire to hear any of it. "You're right-I'm not bein' fair-you're welcome,"

"Why'd you save me, Jack?! Why did you even fuckin' bother if you don't love me no more?!"

"Just 'cause I don't love ya anymore that doesn't mean I can't still care!"

"So then you admit it, you _don't_ love me!"

"Scout, please-"

"It was just that easy, huh? You go from me bein' your world to denyin' me like I was nothin',"

"Lawrence, you've _pushed me so far_!"

"Obviously it wasn't far enough, 'cause whether you like it or not, your ass was on a serious as fuck fence last week. I dunno why you even bother; why not just let me fuckin' die if you don't love me?!"

"It doesn't mean I don't care about you, Lawrence!" Jack roars, Scout jumping as the man tosses his basket, the heavy instruments within it clashing at cluttering noisily overtop Sniper's own weighted voice. "Y'know what?! You're right," Sniper snaps, laughing softly and never once breaking their gaze. "Maybe it _is_ me with the bloody issue,"

"I-I ain't ever said you had an _issue_-"

"Seems like no matter _what_ y'do t'me I'm always first t'keep y'safe; 's a bloody _joke_, right?! I'm puttin' myself in this position,"

"Jack…"

"Maybe I'm jus' askin' for the abuse, then eh? 'S me that can't-"

"Jack, look, I just came out to tell you thanks; nothin' else," Scout explains dryly, bending down to hand the man his basket, Jack nodding slowly, eyes closed.

"Right; thank you, Lawrence. I appreciate it 'nd you're welcome,"

"Kay then…" Scout responds carefully, nodding out of slow understanding. "I'm gonna go back to the base, Jack…" he whispers. "Good luck with the tree this year,"

"Yeah, go get your rest, now…" Jack nods, gesturing for him to head back. "'Nd try t'stay outta trouble now, okay? I can't keep savin' ya every mission we have…"

"You say that every time, Jack…" Lawrence sighs, though the young man can't help but smile just a little.

"Hmph-s'pose I should know by now the warnin' doesn't mean much,"

"Nah, it really doesn't',"

"Well y'fucked up big time last week; 'nd I made sure your Doc knew I wasn't too pleased with his carelessness, too,"

"_Yeah, I heard_," Lawrence groans, noticing that the two now walk side by side, engaged in a slow yet substantial tango toward what Scout assumes is the van. He keeps silent, certainly not minding their promising step. "He said he heard knockin' on the bay's door and your ass was just standin' there, glarin' and cookin' up a lecture,"

"I had words for him, I did,"

"Yeah, I was drugged up, so I missed it, I guess,"

"Funny, the whole reason I yelled at 'im was 'cause you were _drugged up_ t'begin with!"

"I wish I hadn't missed it, you both nag like fuckin' pros,"

"Injectin' random mystery concoctions into a sick bloke's jus' low,"

"I wonder who won-"

"_I_ did, 'cause he knew I was in the right!"

"Funny, Doc said you were just callin' him weird ass Australian names,"

"You'd _think_ you'd be just as ticked, Scout, considerin' in one second he managed t'turn y'into a test subject 'nd sacrifice for a bloody _dispenser_ at once!"

"You almost sound like the thought of Little Larry bein' tossed about so carelessly is a bad thing!"

"Come off it," Jack snaps, Lawrence reddening behind his scarf and giving Jack a fleeting glance.

"I wasn't just a _sacrifice_ though, I mean it's kinda my _job_ to do that sort of shit,"

"What shit, die over a box o'metal?! If I'd known I woulda yelled at your Doc a long time ago,"

"Nah, just to, you know, cap and steal shit, scout the area…"

"Well your comrades were pushin' you about while you were unhealthy, 'nd tossin' ya into enemy territory over a dispenser!"

"You just can't get over it!"

"No I can't, 'nd I dunno how _you're_ not more outraged!" Jack spits, opening the camper door and stepping inside, Lawrence noting with a powerful lurch in his stomach the crushed and vandalized exterior still remains unremedied.

"Maybe 'cause I _know_ them, they wouldn't have done it if they thought I was really in danger," Scout explains, Jack placing the basket near the door and raising his eyebrows disbelievingly at the young man who curls into the armchair, pulling at the cloth around his neck.

"Right, 'cause you passin' out under the effects of a mystery injection in a rigged, humoungus warehouse 's _nowhere_ close t'bein' _really in danger_," Jack snaps, tossing Lawrence his trophy belt and headed back toward the cramped kitchenette. "Silly me,"

"Come on, Jack, you're lookin' too deep into it,"

"I'd be a little more inclined t'let it go if I didn't have t'get involved,"

"But you _didn't_, you _chose_ to; Luc too,"

"So then there _isn't_ a problem with two REDs lookin' out for ya better than your comrades?!"

"Look, Doc knew nothin' was gonna happen to me-and you got BLU to surrender outta the whole thing, so it worked out for RED anyway!"

"Right, he _knew_ 'cause he knew I would be lookin' out for ya, huh?"

Lawrence shifts in the chair, the young man refusing to confirm the Australian's theory with words.

"Well tell him t'quit bankin' on me, we're not t'gether anymore," Jack spits, Lawrence having to wonder however, the man bringing him the same fruit plate he prepared for Scout in the mornings as per usual.

"That don't mean nothin' though; that don't mean we can't still care,"

"Well don't tell _him_ that,"

"So then you do?"

"Pfft-jus' eat your fruit, Lawrence,"

"Thanks-you always got fresher stuff than in the cafeteria,"

"'Course I do,"

"Yeah, I ate some of the cereal-that odd ass cornflake shit I swear Jane orders in bulk from the 1930's, it tastes so fuckin' stale…"

Jack laughs, shaking his head heavily.

"I dunno, it's my first time actually eatin' there in _forever_, it makes me realize how good I had it here, eatin' in the camper with you…" Larry says hopefully; perhaps he would take everything back and say he never has to spend another day away from him again. Scout always was the dreamer of them both.

"Well then savour your little slices then, Scout, 'cause they're your last ones I'll be makin' ya…" Jack sighs, Lawrence's widened eyes and lips curled in optimism falterting as his musings from seconds before are negated. "'Nd I mean it. You _and_your Doc need t'quit actin' like we're still lovey dovey,"

"Dude, chill, I'm just eatin' orange slices in your van," Lawrence huffs, juice dribbling down his chin. "It's not like I'm in your bed gettin' naked,"

"Hmph-I s'pose I really did lead y'back, eh?"

"Looks like it,"

"'S jus' a habit; well when you're done I'll take y'back t'your base, I imagine Jane'll be wakin' up for roll call soon,"

"Nah, we're off today,"

"What?"

"Yeah, Jane, Mikhail, and Doc are planning for anoth-I mean, you know, doin' what they do…"

"_Riiiiighhtt_…"

"Forget what I said, I didn't say nothin'" Scout mumbles quickly, reddening over the fact he'd come particularly close to divulging company secrets.

"Well, er, seems awfully odd he's not conductin' roll call,"

"It's a free day, we can get up as late as we want and even go off bounds and into Teufort City if we've got transportation, his orders,"

"Oh?"

"Yeah,"

"Well then why not go out into the city with your Doc then, Scout?! Sounds better than stayin' holed up in your ex boyfriend's broken down van on a lovely spring afternoon,"

"Have you ever gone on an excursion with a middle aged German doctor, Jack?!"  
>Scout questions with tired hysteria, Jack laughing before shaking his head no.<p>

"Plus I was already in town with him today, funny story,"

"What? Why?!"

"None of your business,"

"Ooo-touchy,"

"Nothin' you'd find interesting,"

"I suppose I don't have t'pretend t'care now we're not t'gether,"

"Naw, I guess you don't,"

"still, 's you getting' up early in the mornin' 'nd actually _movin'_ t'get somewhere; musta been important,"

"Well _yeah_, the Sox're playin' tonight, and doc said I could listen to the game on the radio in the bay, and so I bought some snacks and stuff so we could eat and cheer 'em on without havin' to deal with those nasty ass cornflakes…"

"_Could_?!"

"He's busy and he said he was gonna be tired, so he canceled,"

"Aw, I'm sorry, Lawrence,"

"It's whatever…"

"Well _look_, if you've got the day free you can listen to the game here, 'lright?"

"_Really_?!"

"Yeah; consider it our last hangout,"

"Our last one, huh…" Scout begins, and with the sudden knowledge that this was their "last" time together, that each fiber of the maroon shag seems so much more complex and diverse, so rich and vast under the scrutinous eye of their finite companionship. The dark grey walls, which he had always complained were so bare and hardly fought to keep the winter chill strictly outside of its barriers, appear warmer and more welcoming than ever before; even without the help of the thirty degree increase in temperature. Instead of a rigid slate Scout notices them to be painted a forest green, rich and healthy in hue and vibrant in their dynamic. The beat up recliner he sits upon, with the faded, dusty fabric and the small holes spotted throughout the chair's back and armrest, no longer serves to annoy the young man with the way his limbs would constantly catch unexpectedly in the gaps in the material like a fly buzzing drunkenly into a spider's silken lair. Instead he hooks the tips of his fingers into them, embedding them into the worn plush, silently rooting his place in the Australian's van, in the Australian's life, and finally, in the Australian's heart.

"Well I've gotta draw the line at some point," Jack tisks matter of factly, tossing a small carton of leftout bullets into a small chest where he typically kept the supplies of his firearm. Lawrence blanches; his mouth parting slightly as he mentally contemplates the notion of what he considered to be their unconditional love and how easily negated it appeared to be, how easily severed their sewn romance was. It was him himself who drew the line when he first brought the stone to smash the man's eldest daughter, Scout reasons, his eyes narrowing coldly, his hands fidgeting with themselves in nervous, delicate strokes. The line was drawn as soon as he'd shouted at the Australian in the company of strangers; it had been crossed when he'd jumped and nearly died in his bewilderment.

He couldn't blame Jack for wanting him out of his life, who refrains from crawling into the recliner with Lawrence in order to place him on his lap. Sniper finds a comfortable spot on the floor, settling without complaint. That he even allows the young man to sit before him at all without the wrinkled brow and indignant aire about him is a vast improvement compared to just after the incident a week and a half ago. Though it was true the two had exchanged words stemming only from the Gravel Pit affair as well as those of today, Scout, the dreamer, cannot help but pretend that somehow, the line would end up erased and drawn anew.

Jack sighs, taking the plate from Lawrence's hand and bussing it into the compact kitchenette. "Figure we might 's well get our goodbyes 'nd farewells out on a good note,"

"Goodbyes?" Scout asks in quiet wonder, Jack twirling his fingers in the carpet, pulling up strands of lint and bunching them together absentmindedly with the tips of his fingers.

"Well, I'd rather you got used t'havin' me outta your life,"

"Look, Jack, I can understand if you don't want us to be _together_ or around each other no more, but you can't just erase me from your _life_!" Scout explains evenly. "And I can't erase you from mine…"

"'S not _erasin'_, 's puttin' a stop t'all this,"

"All _what_?"

"The visits, the romance, the friendship, the savin'; it was a mistake, Lawrence, 's always been a mistake,"

"I know I fucked up, Jack, I know I did," Scout begins through strained teeth, eyes on the ceiling. "But no matter what, I kinda hope you'd still look back on on everything and not wanna _forget_ it…"

"I'll _never_ forget it, Lawrence; I couldn't, 'nd I wouldn't, either, but that doesn't mean 's gonna carry on the way we remember it. I made the mistake o'lettin' you get close t'me, o'getting' close _t'you_; 's gotten to the point where even your damn _doctor's_ countin' on me t'put myself on the line for you, you're relyin' on me t'give you my all durin' missions, 'nd there's no way 's gonna go on like this if I'm endin' it with you,"

"But still, Jack, you can't just take it all back,"

"'S not gonna go _on_ like this, either!"

"Well whether you like it or not Jack, it's kinda gonna!" Scout explains heatedly, though careful not to rise in temper; both men appear tense, bated, quick to respond to the other, though, thankfully, civil. "Think about it, I know your ass was sittin' up there still pissed off as fuck that day, Jack; I know you watched me slip into that warehouse and you weren't gonna do nothin' to try to get me out,"

Sniper grumbles.

"You were probably tryin' not to do nothin' when you saw Tavish riggin' that shit, too; you tried forgettin' me, lettin' me go-"

"_I'm not jus' gonna let you die, Scout,_"

"I ain't never said that you would, and that's exactly what I mean; no matter how far removed you try to become from me, you ain't never gonna be completely gone, 'cause you still care," Scout explains softly, the man grumbling further. "'S why you've got me here now, and you're even gonna listen to the game with me; you can hate my guts, but you're still gonna care,"

"I've always hated your bloody _guts_; 'nd you're here 'cause I want our last "moments" t'gether t'be good ones at least; better than the van, or that night. I want us t'have nice closure-not because I care, but because I'm an adult man, 'nd I've been through enough hurt in my life t'hold a grudge,"

"So then it's for your own piece of mind?" Scout mumbles. "And not 'cause of…nothin' else?"

Jack says nothing further, and neither does Lawrence; he couldn't have spoken even if he wanted to.

-

Jack's wrist was typically the crutch of time. Upon it glimmered a usual masculine timepiece, curled and strapped to his wrists by a loose and warm smelling leather band, large enough in its width to keep the small tattoo of a chameleon Sniper'd had on the underside for nearly two decades covered. Just as typical as his time telling appendage, was once the certainty that Lawrence always woke up to find the Australian's strong arm around his frame, coiled and strung so tightly and possessively about his lithe figure that anyone observing their romantic dynamic from the outside would have called it a biological prison.

With the man's embrace, however, Lawrence's awakenings were promised two things when sleeping with the Australian; a soft kiss on the corner of his lips, and a cursory sweep of his eyes over the surface of the watch, and enlightenment of the current hour.

Lawrence's eyes part, and he yawns and stretches his body lazily before curling back up and bringing his knees to his chest, each conscious second only drawing attention to the glaring void that was the disregard for their usual intimate routine. Jack's embrace, this time around, is wholly nonexistent. Even as Scout's eyes widen with a growing sense of visibility he finds his head cranes upon his neck, stretching in an attempt to find a wallclock of sorts in an effort to maintain at least some hint of normalcy.

Rubbing his balled fists against his weighted eyes, the young man grunts from confusion as a gusty, drawn out yawn whistles softly between his soft lips. The lyrical strumming of a tuned instrument, quiet, calm, and yet with a vividly traceable volume, is to hear from Jack's bedroom, the beacon of the bedside lamp Lawrence knew so well shimmering from underneath the door as the only light source, obscured by the maroon shade placed overtop the bulb. Scout reaches an arm out and flicks on the smaller, matching lamp resting next to the recliner on the floor (Sniper had no room for a side table), climbing from the chair slowly and careful not to put too much weight in his step, pressing an equally gentle ear against the door.  
>The notes are lune like, light and brisk, calming and gentle, perfect for a young man only just now waking up.<p>

"…slopin' thru' the Bush, elopin' thru' the moor, heraldin' along the way, o'th' faces that you'll know 'nd the bonds that start t'grow, oh the place I'll return someday!"

'_Is he really singin' in there?!_' Lawrence asks himself quietly, a small smile curling upon his lips devilishly as a small hiccup of a laugh stifles itself behind his hand. He pushes the bedroom door open slightly, and thin wisps of both cigarette and incense smoke slithers out in billowing, noxious spirals as if Scout had released a gaseous curse from a well lit, musical tomb. Waving his hand in front of his nose and face, Lawrence grimaces before poking his head through the small crevice he'd formed by pushing the door from its frame.

His eyes shoot open quickly at the sight that meets him; Jack, who lies lazily with his back flat against the mattress, keeps his right leg elevated so it forms a bit of a pyramid at his knees, the bottom of his foot flat against the bed as well. He smiles loftily with his head embedded in the comfort of his pillow, his long, thin fingers entwined with the silver nylon of the ever elusive strings, plucking a small, jaunty reel absentmindedly.

"…uh…"

The Australian slowly parts his concealed eyes, his pupils dilating quickly as they focus in on the frame of the young man who observes him.

"Jack?"

The man grumbles pleasantly, attempting to make a more concrete motion, though not before nearly sending the small glass Lawrence just now notices rests atop the comforter to tumble and seep into the throw rug. A brown liquid of a thin consistency swishes against the confines of the clear drinking utensil, Jack's quiet laughter accompanied by the tangy hint of warm scotch in his hot breath.

"'Ello, I see you've woken up,"

Lawrence nods, taking in the sights of the room, and the empty, overturned liquor bottle that had rolled its way over to the man's disheveled chest, whose top lies open, its contents muddied and disorganized, exposed and showcased in its discombobulated splendor. "Yeah, was about to ask you what time it is…" Scout mumbles from the corner of his mouth, noticing that within the small box resides various books containing sheet music and strings, record sleeves peppering the collection with colour here and there, gracing the musical trove with their Hawaiian motifs.

"_Oh_, 'nd who's that callin', out _t'me_, who owns this voice so grand 'nd free, who's that callin', out_t'meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_-" Jack continues, shutting his eyes and bringing his fingers to strum in pleasant accompaniment against the ukulele again. Picking up the discarded watch on the bedside table, Lawrence flips it to a legible angle and deciphers the time to be exactly 6:37 pm, the Red Sox scheduled to play in exactly forty minutes' time.

He steals another look at the delightfully tipsy man, whose unbuttoned slacks slip lazily from his hips, exposing his toned and hairy midrift. His naked feet twitch sporadically, Sniper himself most likely unaware of the ticks in his drunkness. Near the kicking limbs are crumpled, yellow pieces of notebook paper, the holes punched along the left side, spaced oddly in the middle in such a manner that suggests to the Bostonian that they were Australian scraps. Each thrust of his heel crushes and bends the paper, which Scout bends over to smooth out and read, Jack's recognisible scrawl of hieroglyphics and thoughly incomprehensible and illegible scratches and squiggles jumping out to instantly claim them as his.

Lawrence attempts squinting, though he'd experienced the older man's handwriting enough to know all efforts to undersand the Australian's butchering of the written word were beyond futile; they were delusive.

"…what's this, Jack?" Lawrence asks calmly, the man scratching at the thin wife beater he wears, the fabric dragged along his collarbone under the command of his fingers.

"Lyrics-t'a song I've been workin' on,"

"A song?" Larry asks quietly from genuine surprise; he'd never known Jack was a _songwriter_. "I didn't know you wrote, and I didn't know you played the uku-whatsit, either,"

"'S 'cause with you constantly around I never had time t'practice; now I've got a bit o'time I finally have a chance t'bust 'er out 'nd get my fingers goin',"

"And what's her name?"

"Maisy," Jack grunts, strumming a soft g chord before his gruff though not at all unpleasant voice pipes the lyrics he composed as a sweet ode to her name.

"You sound good, Jack," Scout whispers, smiling softly at the man and his cradled embrace around the instrument.

"Y'should hear me when I haven't been drinkin' Tavish's stuff…sound a lot…" Jack yawns, his fingers still strumming lively chords in his silence. "Better."

"I'm sure you do, Jack…" Scout smiles, leaning against the wall. "I just wish you had told me you played, you know, at _some point_ durin' a whole three year friendship…"

"Every man's allowed 'is secrets, now…"

"So you write songs, too?"

"Yeah, little ones…"

"'Bout what? Cute boys?"

"Ugh-'bout all sorts o'things," Jack grumbles, waving a hand of dismissal. "Not silly love songs about dopey boys,"

"Naw, 'course not, it ain't your style…"

"I'd rather sing about animals, or hikin' through the Outback,"

"'Cause you're an old, borin' fart," Scout snaps, the Australian rolling his eyes.

"What kind of an Aussie would I be if I didn't write an ode t'my own home?!"

"And you ain't got no problems not writin' an ode to me…" Lawrence mumbles, sitting on the edge of the man's bed and reaching out for the instrument.

"Can I try?"

"Sure, but God help ya if y'break 'er…"

"I won't," Larry whispers, taking Maisy into his hands, adjusting his limbs in wild entanglement and bringing her to rest awkwardly upon his knee, tucking her underneath his bicep. "Ahem-_Jaaaaaaaaaaaack, is a poopbutt, Jaaaaaaaaaaaaack, is a bumpkin-_"

"_Oi now, wot_?!" the man raises an eyebrow, sitting up pointedly.

"He's a _gooooooooooooberr_-"

"The _bloody Hell's_ a bumpkin-?!"

But Lawrence cannot respond, the young man toppling over from powerful laughter. "Your face-!"

"Poopbutt, real mature, Scout…" Jack sighs, taking the ukulele back, Lawrence wiping his eyes.

"Come on, you gotta admit it was funny,"

Jack scoffs.

"Why don't ya-I dunno-go set up the radio 'nd go listen t'your game…"

"I thought you was gonna listen with me?"

"Well-_no_-" Jack chuckles, the young man simply crestfallen.

"Aw Jack, _please_-?!"

"Why d'you need me, they're _your_ team!"

"I thought you liked them too…" Lawrence explains softly, eyes pointedly fixed the floor. "…I thought you cared and thought they were cool…"

"Ugh, fine, since y'look like you're about ready t'cry,"

"I ain't," Lawrence sighs softly, the young man honest in his claim, though he won't deny it too adamantly if his fake tears resut in Jack by his side during the game. "I bought some chips, and some pretzels,"

"Y'bought ten pounds o'salt, 's more like; ;s not healthy, Scout…"

"Says the guy who just drank a whole bottle of liquor by himself!"

"Hey, it makes the days easier…" Jack shrugs, shutting his eyes and leaning back to sing again.

"…There was once a little ducklin', swimmin' in the sea, a fine little ducklin' 'bout as ducky as can be, swimmin' to th'shore, right o'er t'me, jumped into my hands, right excited t'see me-"

"Nah, _I'm_ the one the ducklings wanna see," Lawrence explains moodily, the young man's love for baby ducks knowing no bounds.

"He tumbles t'the ground, 'nd walks upon th'land, peepin' at my heels, away from me oh he can't _staaaannndd_…." Jack strums, Lawrence folding his arms and awaiting the closing lines to the song. "….t'be."

-

"Now I dunno if you remember-"

"Uhuh-"

"But Ray Culp, _maaaaaan_-" Lawrence swoons, the wildly cheering crowd muffled by the radio's quality. "That save just now was _all_ him…" Lawrence explains, digging his greasy fingers to crinkle in the bag of plain chips whose colours also happen to mirror those of the Sox.

"I remember-but I doubt your Doc would,"

"Nah, I've _always_ listened to game in the medibay!" Scout jumps, wide eyed and alert as he explains his fandom history, his cheeks stuffed with decomposing potato skins. "You ain't got no idea how proud a dude can feel when he gets a boring old_German_ to start hatin' the fuckin' Yankees after a couple months…"

"Guess y'jus' rubbed off on 'im…"

"I swear I was cryin' when we was listenin' to the game and the Yankees caught the ball and Doc like, made that German noise and went _"Kahm Ahn, Yaynkeez!"_

Lawrence booms in his best imitation of a German accent, the older man chuckling softly, smiling at his attempt.

"'S actually pretty good,"

"I've been workin' on it,"

"So then what d'you do, jus' sit in the medibay with the radio, 'nd Doc works around ya?"

"The Medibay is _huge_, Jack, you ain't even ever been in there; when you brought me to that one, it was just the medical supply in the basement, he had to take me to a whole 'nother wing to get me to the _actual bay_,"

"Oi…"

"So there's plenty of room; I sit on a table he ain't usin', play with Taco and Porkchop-Doc has doves-I even got 'em chirpin' when they get a home run! Seriously, last game they were tied, right? And it's the bottom of the ninth, and the Sox knock it outta the park, and the birds start goin' _crazy_ when everyone on the radio got crazy,"

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Lawrence nods, leaning forward intensely to catch the words of the announcer. "Aw _shit_, Ray's battin'!"

"Your man, eh?"

"You saw him yourself, there ain't no one in the whole League who can stop Ray-COME ON, YOU CAN DO IT!"

"_My ears_," Jack chuckles, handing the young man the bowl of pretzels he reaches out for. "_Watch it now, you're gettin' crumbs everywhere…._"

"I'll clean 'em tomorrow-"

"Tomorrow?! Your arse isn't spendin' the night, mate-"

"_Yeah, but-the Sox…_" Scout gulps. "They're playin' again tomorrow…"

"Well you're gonna have t'rip on the Yankees with Doc, 'cause you're not comin' 'round after this…"

"What?! But-but-!"

"No's no, Scout…"

"But-"

"_I'm_ tired, _and_ I have t'go into Teufort early tomorrow; gonna take the van t'a mechanic 'nd see how much it'll cost t'get her fixed…"

"Jack…"

"She was leakin' coolant yesterday, too. She's got all sorts o'problems 'nd I'd like t'spend a day tryin' t'get her taken care of. If it's nothin' too difficult, I can try to afford it,"

"I'm sorry, Jack…"

"'S whatever, jus' listen to your game…" Jack sighs, hoisting himself from the recliner, Scout instantly taking advantage of his vacated spot and stretching himself comfortably. "Where're you goin', Jack…?"

"Jus' goin' t'pour myself another glass…"

"Naw Jack-naw," Lawrence protests, tugging on the man's wrist and keeping the man near him. "You don't need no more to drink…"

"…Suppose you're right, I don't wanna drink up all my booze too quickly…"

"I just hope you haven't been doin' nothin' hard…" Scout whispers, referring to the man's tendency to resort to serious drugs in the midst of a depression; it had been hard for the young man to stomach the first time he'd dealt with the washed out Australian two years ago, who could hardly even string sentences together after an entire weekend of substance abuse.

"No, no-I've-I've gotten better with that," he explains sheepishly, and the two are silent as the radio host commentates calmly on the events of the game, nothing of interest truly transpiring as Jack and Lawrence attempt to avoid the other's eye.

"Jack?" Lawrence begins softly after a few minutes of strained silence, shifting in the recliner and dragging his finger across the corduroy fabric loosely.

"Yeah? 'S wrong?"

"Nothin', uh…"

"Yeah?"

"I was just wonderin' if you…"

"Yeah, 's wrong?"

"Do you think anyone could ever love me the way you did?"

Jack sighs, darting his eyes to the floor before closing them wearily.

"Now Lawrence…what kind o'question's that?!"

"I just wanna know, if you think you think I got a chance at havin' someone love me again or not…"

"Right, 'nd does that _someone_ happen t'be me?"

Lawrence blanches, but keeps his silence, though it is through his contrated tension, and the way he rubs his teeth against his chapping lips that Sniper senses Lawrence means the affirmative of his question.

"Listen, Scout, you're a handsome, sweet boy who really means well, you're _funny_, 'nd can really bring a bloke who sees no point in life back t'his senses, 'nd put a right big smile on his face. You can bring someone a lot o'joy if that's what you're wantin'. You're smart, 'nd brave, carin'-holdin' you in my arms was sometimes the only thing I could look forward to at the end of the day…" Jack explains, the young man not even reacting as the Sox earn the fourth home run of the night, the crowd's excitement seeping through the outdated radio in waves of cheerful excitement. "…I reckon you'll have no problem findin' the right one, whether they're a man or woman,"

"Or you?" Lawrence asks quietly, Jack sighing as his hand curls nervously in his hair. "Look, Lawrence, you'll always be special t'me…" Jack begins, avoiding the young man's attentive eye. "But…y'have t'understand, you're just not good for me. You hurt me too much, 'nd what we had jus' couldn't compensate. 'nd honestly,I don't think we're meant t'be t'gether as anythin' more than two friendly adversaries-but that doesn't mean it wasn't worth the shot,"

"So then, I guess you're never gonna fall in love with me again, huh…" Scout mumbles, curling against the chair and letting his eyes fall shut.

"Oh _Lawrence_, c'mon, don't get down, now; 's jus' enjoy the game…" Jack awkwardly attempts to steer the already shattered mood of the young man back into his usual, chipper Sox mode, but even as Ray comes up to the plate to bat yet again, he demonstrates a mood much too devastated to clearly be remedied by even his favourite player.

Lawrence sputters as yet more axel grease comes flowing from a hose the young man had only learned existed by trial and error. The torrent of liquid springs at least four feet in the air due to the release of pressure subjecting it to a subdued state, splotching his face and staining it black and a sickly sludge of brown. The oils mingle consistency, the falling rain that had long since soaked his body and clothes causing the mixture to adhere atop his flesh like a waxy film, with an eerie, unearth buoyancy. He smelled like oil, rusted automobiles, and Scout spits and moans as he found he even _swallowed_ the poisonous cocotion, the rainwater that dribbles over his lips tasting distinctly of motor oil.

Regardless, the young man's slippery, clumsy fingers grip tightly onto the meticulously small and specific wrench, his fingers sore and frozen from the cool rain and awkward angle that forces the blood to sink to the tips, the repetitive motions causing Lawrence to suffer from what he presumes to be a particularly aching case of carpal tunnel.

He'd been at his attempted repair since the game ended four hours ago, Jack having fallen asleep by the seventh inning. It was the opportunity he had been looking for, the young man having swept the heavy brown bag unknowningly (to the Australian) filled with car parts he'd purchased in the city that day, the particular makes and models having cost the young Lawrence a good couple hundred by time it was all said and done.

Paul had said on the phone the repairs were easy enough. And even despite the clear connection and the accurately transcribed directions Lawrence obtained via the phone call from his professional mechanic of a brother, he still finds himself screwing up. Swearing loudly as he contemplates tossing the small headlight bulb he now fiddles with, Lawrence groans from all his aches and worries and frustration as the radiator leaks at a much more rapid rate than before, the sopping mud drenched a tarish, filthy black, clumps of unidentified solidity now seeping into and staining Lawrence's filthy slacks and Heinrich's knit.

He could cry.

"FUCK IT!" Scout roars, slamming the wrench to the ground, a bubbling sense of overwhelming helplessness creeping in his nerves like impending fever. Rain pours into the complex workings of the engine, and his bottom lip trembles as it all becomes more confusing the longer he tries to make sense of it, holding up the soaked diagram of the engine he'd traced based on his brother's description the ink running and streaking the paper with illegible lines of blue and purple.

"Jack'll just hate me for fuckin' with his van even _more_,"

He pivots in an attempt to unscrew one cap while keeping his elbow in place to manually cap another leaking hose, yelping however as the spilled fluids cause him to lose his footing, sending him toppling into the sludge. Lawrence takes a look at the whole of himself, now completely drenched in the excretion of the camper van, numbed by the freezing rain and hopeless dread.

"_Lawrence_!" Jack wails, and the young man's head shoots up to find Jack standing in the parted entrance to the camper, dry and warm and, based upon the expression of pure shock upon his face, alarmed over something or other. "Lawrence, y'little bugger, I've been lookin' for you the last five minutes!" Jack roars, giving the conditions outside of the van no thought as he stalks aggressively toward the young man, his own clothing instantly shaded darker, richer hues, soaked himself as per the wishes of the heavy pour. "What in the Bloody Hell's wrong with you, standin' out here?! You're sick 'nd barely clothed, y'look like you've been rollin' around in the mud! What in the _world_'re you doin' out here?!" Jack pleads, though he pulls his foot back carefully, almost stepping upon a metal rod meant to be sandwiched _somewhere_ in the engine of the van-though where exactly Scout had long since given up on trying to figure out.

"Lawrence…" Jack whispers, taking the parts into his hands and giving the guilty young man a gentle look over. "Lawrence, where did you get these?"

"Teufort," he whispers shamefully, his voice hardly a whispered cloak.

"Bloody Hell, I guess you were tryin' t'change the oil-?!"

"I-I wanted to fix everything I broke…"

"Why would y'wait until a _Stormy night_, Lawrence?!"

"Sorry…"

"Why didn't you just _tell_ me, Scout?!"

"I wanted it to be a surprise…"

"Look at you, you're covered in filth 'nd you're only gonna make yourself worse after the whole week o'rest y'needed," Jack sighs, plugging up the leaking hose appropriately and shutting the hood of the engine. "Look at you…" he whispers again, bringing a hand brush the sopping hair from the young man's eyes, his thumb catching the oily grime off Lawrence's profile, exposing cool, bloodless flesh underneath.

"Okay, no more _fix-it-up-Scout_ for the night; y'need t'take a shower right now…" Jack growls, bringing him carefully into his arms so as to prevent himself from getting dirty as well. "C'mon, now…" Jack whispers, untying Lawrence's cleats, gagging as he does so, leaving them to drip near the door. He assists the young man in undressing, Scout too frozen and dazed to do so by himself.

"Yeesh…" Jack grimaces, grabbing a bag from off the floor and letting the unsalvageable slacks and sweater tumble into it unceremoniously.

"Let's get you a shower runnin'-I reckon your Doc won't be too pleased about his sweater…"

"He knits them all the time, he won't care…" Lawrence explains shamefully, turning the dial to hot and holding out his fingers to test the water. "I don't wanna use all your water, though…"

"'S alright, I can just grab a jug or two from the base in the mornin'; 's no problem…" Jack whispers guiding the young man under the shower head. "Take your time, Larry…" he whispers, shaking his head softly as he brings his hands to smooth across Lawrence's skin, and claw at his hair with spicy shampoo. "'S not that big a deal, we're at the base now, 's not like we're in the wilderness,"

Jack turns the dial after a few more minutes of sudsing the Bostonian, grabbing the towel from off the hook, the man draping it around Scout's frame and edging carefully from out of the cramped bathroom, hardly big enough for even one person.

"What in the _world_ were you thinkin'…" Jack scoffs softly, tossing Lawrence a dry t-shirt and lowering him into the recliner, a comforter following the t-shirt as well. "Y'can hardly even _move_, you're so frozen…"

"I just wanted to fix your van, Jack…"

"I know, Larry, 'nd thank you-but you should've let the idea go for _at least tonight_ when y'saw the lightnin' 'nd rain, 'specially with you bein' sick…"

"I know…"

"Look, there's no reason t'act so ashamed, I'm not _cross_…" Jack sighs, pulling a level and allowing the chair to lean back, Lawrence able to stretch with the added length. "…Just worried." Jack tucks a pillow under his head, the young man's weary eyes watching the man as he walks about the room, producing a battery powered space heater and pointing the warm air onto Scout directly. "I can't play Doc again, not this week,"

"I know, I'll leave in the mornin'…"

"No, we'll fix 'er up t'gether in the sunshine, love…" Jack mumbles, turning off the lamp and patting Scout's slowly warming cheek. "Why were you _out there without a clue?!_"

"I just want you to love me, Jack…" Lawrence mumbles, the older man stoically quiet. " I wanted you to know how far I'll go for you…"

"…_Well, now's not the time, love_," Jack smiles softly, curling the blanket around the young man, letting a hand curl affectionately around Scout's cheek. "How about in the mornin'?" he asks, and Lawrence nods, yawning widely, and the easiest sleep he'd known in a long time washes over him in no time at all, the Australian placing a gentle kiss atop his head; he already knew.


	26. The Thirty Seventh

"Normal people don't just _forget_ their own fuckin' birthdays, wombat," Scout scoffs at the chuckling man, whose mouth twitches slightly. His eyebrow cocks in a responsive arch as if a retort lies on the tip of his tongue.

"I never said I _forgot it_." indeed one does. He swipes a broad palmed hand to fan through the thick strands of his dark hair; He says nothing else, however.

"I mean, when the Hell were you plannin' on tellin' me your birthday was next week?!" Lawrence snaps with a scathing, bitter repugnance, the bitterness of his words traceable along the sharp edge his relentless tongue commands. "Well - considerin' you've have a whole three years t'figure out my birthday, I gotta say you're at fault too," Jack explains in defeated weariness before hoisting himself off the edge of the edge of the brick wall upon which they sit.

"Yeah well, it ain't like you left me clues or nothin', with the way you'd always act like a secretive dick every time I asked,"

"Maybe y'just weren't goin' about _askin'_ the right way," Sniper grumbles, careful to avoid the young man's eye.

"Maybe you're placin' way too much fuckin' _mystique_ around a goddamn _birthday_-"

"_Look, why does it even matter, Lawrence?!_" Jack snaps, turning sharply on his heel and aiming at Scout a sharp, narrow eyed glare, complete with piercing eyes to suggest he no longer found the young man's persistence anything other than borderline infuriating. "Y'never made a big deal outta not knowin' the last two years..."

"Yeah well, maybe those other years we weren't together; maybe this year I gotta be different about it 'cause _we're_different; after everythin' that happened in St. Louis last month, and maybe I'm tryin' to show you how much I care; you ever think about that, Jack?"

Sniper grumbles once - that he does so guiltily, he does not inform the defensive Lawrence who still sits with his rear plastered against the cool, dusty wall, donning a humourless expression himself. "I know I ain't got a lot of datin' experience, but I guess I didn't know it was such an offensive thing for a dude to wanna know his own boyfriend's birthday,"

"'Lright, I get it," Jack snaps quietly, raising a defeated, heavy hand. "I hear ya."

"Sometimes it don't seem like you do, like I gotta say shit over and over again before you really take me seriously,"

"See?! This is what I didn't want t'happen!"

"_What_?!"

"I didn't want my bloody birthday turnin' into a huge deal! I've _never_ made a fuss about my birthday; _never_. My parents weren't big on 'em, I was never big on 'em, 'nd now that we're _t'gether_ you're over here tryin' t'celebrate 'nd all that mess-"

"Right, figures I try to do somethin' nice and you take it and find a way to make it this evil thing; typical _Jack_,"

"'Nd you're turnin' _me_ into the villain 'cause maybe I just want y'to bloody _drop it_! 'S my goddamn birthday, 'nd if I want y'to leave it be without the question fanfare, I've the right!"

"Why are you so against me even knowin', Jack?! 'Cause you're older than you actually say you are?!"

"N-no-"

"You're what, thirty somethin'?!"

"It doesn't matter,"

"Ok, _forty_ somethin'-"

"Right, make me feel that much better, why don't ya-"

"So you _are_,"

"No, but the fact that y'think I could _pass_ for forty somethin' hurts a tad,"

"Well maybe if you'd get the fuckin' stick out your goddamn ass, I wouldn't have to fuckin' guess,"

"Maybe I wouldn't have a stick shoved up there if y'weren't so bloody _nosy_!"

"Look, fuck it, I ain't dealin' with it then, Jack," Scout snaps, letting himself slip from the wall, wiping chalky residue from his belted waist. "I wanted to try to get you to open up, you know? Maybe I figured 'cause you and I are actually, I dunno, in_love_ or somethin', we could can the mystery bullshit. I thought maybe 'cause I've fuckin' felt you _inside_ of me I could have the courtesy of knowin' your goddamn birthday. But I ain't tryin' to deal with this cryptic shit either. You don't wanna say,_fine_; forget I fuckin' asked,"

"..._Larry_..."

"Forget I asked, Jack!" Scout snaps heavily, his heart giving a sudden weighted thump that jumps to the center of his warm throat as he feels the Australian pull him back gently, his sweaty hand wrapped lightly around his own. "No, you're right..." the man sighs unevenly, curling his lips in a nervous twist. It is out of caution that Scout says nothing, his expression locked stoically, and somewhat rigid. "Sorry. I'm bein' an arse,"

Sniper snickers after a few moments' time of silence. Lawrence's eyes glow with a devilish glint the man only notices after observing the silent Bostonian acutely.

"...What..."

"Nothin', just surprised I'd ever hear you admit that you're a weird butthole," Scout pouts, trying not to grin as the man tousles his hair affectionately.

"I'll admit it; doesn't change that I am,"

"Nah,"

"'Nd it prolly never _will_,"

"Whatever, just tell me your damn birthday,"

"April 17th, ok?! Now drop it," Jack chuckles, lighting a cigarette that now dangles, pincered in between his thin lips.

"April 17th..."

"What?!"

"What year?!"

"19, er-"

"_Yeah_?!"

"_1931..._"

"Damn, Jack..." Lawrence chuckles, using his embraced hand with Jack's to tug the older man along, the two setting on a moderate stroll out of the sight of either base. "Thirty seven, huh..." he whispers, Sniper nodding curtly.

"Aye."

"'S not so old,"

"_So_?" he chuckles, small gusts of smoke billowing from the depths of his long nose. "Look-" Sniper inclines his head downward, Lawrence standing on tiptoe, his face straining from concentration as he tries to spot that which the man attempts to show him.

"Y'see 'em?"

"See what?"

"The-the hairs," he whispers. Hardly at all, Scout notes, his eyes swiveling slowly over the three individual silver hairs that pock his otherwise rich, youthful, chocolate brown amassment of healthy hair upon his head. "That ain't nothin', Jack, come on; my dad was _younger_ than you when he started baldin'..."

"I've got _more_ grey in the beard when I let it grow out..."

"So you didn't want me to know your birthday 'cause you're _almost_ forty,"

"Don't put like that!" Jack barks, Lawrence shrugging innocently. "I mean, 's jus' a stupid day. Sure, 's nice when you're eight 'nd nine 'nd still pickin' your nose t'have a day where you're the most special snowflake in all the world, but c'mon, 's jus' thirty seven, 's jus' a number..."

"Yeah, but it's _your_ thirty seventh, Jack," Scout sighs, resting a hand on Sniper's wrist.

"'Nd ten years ago it was my twenty seventh; was actually the first birthday'o mine out here, 'nd absolutely nothin's changed since then..." Sniper explains, exhaling deeply. "I mean, y'know, got a little bit'o hair on the chest, can tolerate tomatoes 'nd my allergy t'hazlenuts's isn't's bad as it used t'be," Sniper attempts to joke, his expression faltering into one of disapproval after a second or two of contemplative silence.

"Bloody Hell, Lawrence, you're goin' t'get me a ruddy _present_ now, ain't ya—"

"Hell _yeah_, I am! I owe ya after, you know,—St. Louis..."

"Well anythin' ya get me is goin' straight in the rubbish bin!"

"WHAT—?!"

"So don't even bother, love!"

"_Seriously_?!"

"I mean it; ya gift wrap it'n I'll _burn_ the bloody thing, too—"

"Seriously, you're a fuckin' asshole!"

"Now come on, love, that's a little unfair! A _real_ arsehole wouldn't give ya the heads up, now would'e?!"

"Jack, you're fuckin' _sick_—"

"I just don't want anyone—'specially _you_—goin' outta their way t'make a big deal outta my bloody birthday when _I_ can't even be bothered t'give a right shit!"

"You ain't gonna _need_ to, 'cause I'ma give the biggest shit for the both of us!"

"Good Lord, mate..."

"Seriously! Shit's gonna be so big you ain't gonna need t'shit again for _another_ ten years!" Scout beams, Sniper patting the eager young man affectionately on the cheek.

"Lovely imagery, Scout..."

"Look, I dunno how you fuckin' kangaroo humpers do it Down Under, but this is America, and in America, we celebrate our fuckin' birthdays,"

"Been spendin' a bit o'time with your Soldier, have you? Anyway I'm familiar with how apeshit you Yanks go over birthdays, been livin' in the good ole US of A longer than you've been allowed to legally _drink_ in'er,"

"Then you should know it's fuckin' _rude_ to burn a dude's present,"

"Listen, love, you're too sweet, y'really are, 'n it warms my blackened ole heart t'see ya so excited over me'n my birthday, but please don't do anythin' outrageous; gimmie a nice little smooch maybe, 's'all I'll need..."

"No can do, dingo," Lawrence snaps, Sniper's weary smile of resignation not going unnoticed by the Bostonian.

"Look, I got it-tomorrow, we got a mission at Dustbowl,"

"Aye,"

"And here's how it's gonna fuckin' go; I challenge you to one of them duels - nah, don't _laugh_, asshole - I challenge your ass to a duel, and if I win, I get to give you a gift,"

Jack mumbles.

"Party, cake and all. And you ain't gonna say shit about it," Lawrence sneers, looking the older man firmly in the eye.

"'Lright then, Mongrel; I accept. If you really think y'can beat a vet at his own game, y'can throw me a bloody party," Sniper concedes, nodding reluctantly. "But I'm not gonna tell ya if I like it or not'n as soon as it's outta the packagin' it's hittin' the shredder,"

"Fine! You and me tomorrow. You win, I won't do shit. If I do, you're gettin' a damn party you asshole," Scout nods, turning around in their steady walk, Sniper lifting his arms to curl his hands around the runner's hips. "Y'goin' already?"

"Well yeah, gotta get shoppin'!" Scout explains, Sniper chuckling dismissively as he too gives the distant fort of RED a weary glance. Scout balances on tip toe so as to give himself the inches necessary to meet the lips of the soon-to-be birthday enthusiast, who eagerly traps Scout in an intimate loop of romantic paralysis.

"One gift—" Sniper reminds him tersely in between kisses.

"Nah, I'm gettin' you as many as I fuckin' _want_ if I win!"

"Nothin' over ten buckaroos—"

Kiss.

"Nine ninety nine, dickhead!"

"God Help ya if you're as dumb as I think ya are 'nd y'_make_ me somethin'—"

And another.

"How 'bout _love_, dingo? You think about that?"

"Hm; 'course,"

And Sniper turns his head to capture his lips from another angle, his voice low and rugged as the insinuation of birthday sex excites him more than he'd prefer.

"A bloody _party_-"

"Like your sorry ass even has _friends_ to invite!"

Scout yelps as a cool hand feels its way up the back of his cotton blue shirt, the thin material draping over Sniper's arm as his hand travels along the crease of Scout's defined spine. "You're cleanin' it all up, tho'."

The fit of the fluorescent yellow gloves strain against his hands and wrists. The rubber clings against his flesh, as if the malleable rubber sought to sabotage his circulation. The intense strong hold could almost suggest a life long feud raged between Scout and the disposable gloves; As they had.

Scout could hardly say the moisture that collects on the inside of the miry lining conjures any sort of pleasant memories that didn't spawn from some sort of bitterness. His pout is a professional scowl only the baby brother of the family could muster after years of practice. The six year old Scout who'd been forced to bed at eight pm sharp could do nothing against the stern Julie and her tear-resistant exterior. No matter how long and hard he wailed, begging to hear the Sox play to the end on the radio, his tactics of cry, scream, repeat, maybe smash something tapered in success after the first implementation. Thus scowling was all he could do to effectively alert his mother that he was in a "bad mood".

Julie, who worked the morning and afternoon shifts at the grocery store during the week, always had a note on the fridge detailing each job she wanted done and who was assigned to what.

'I thought I was done with this June Cleaver shit.'

The gritty prickle of the hand covers cause the hair of his forearms to stand on end. The static shocks are the result of a phenomena Scout can't say he cares to puzzle out. Scout can hardly say Jane had much going on in the ways of organizing and maintaining a proper cleaning budget. The fact that there were even gloves at all was a marvel, in all reality, even if the tips of the fingers were completely blackened with who knew how many years of tidying assignments. Not to mention the gloves themselves were a good four sizes too small for his hands. Scout knew to count his blessings.

He wasn't quite sure the ferocity of his bared teeth did much to sway Jane in his ultimate decision that Scout was to stay behind this mission. "This base has not been tidied in nearly three weeks, would you let Sun Tzu walk into this base without shoes on, because I would not dare, son! No sir—"

_'Yeah right, 's been longer than three weeks…'_

"—Sun Tzu would not even put a foot on one tile! He would be so disgusted by the condition of your barracks that he would not even have the time to wonder how he was transported some two thousand years into the future—!"

_'He don't have no business in my fuckin' barrack no way…'_

"—And we would not let our guest leave with 2Fort dirt on his heels!" the man had informed Scout in snippets interrupted by his own internal commentary that morning at breakfast. The overcoat to his uniform still unbuttoned, the hour of the morning perhaps doing much to quash any energy dressing himself that he'd rather keep reserved for the fight that was to come.

The same fight the Bostonian had presumed he too would be taking part in. Only he could capture, it wasn't as if his position (especially a Scout of his recognized talent) were easily interchangeable, in favour of housework no less.

"Seeing as an attempted preliminary strike against the REDs down at Badlands would not only open up a new strategic front on its own but also free up the base from threat of invasion for an undisclosed period of hours, it gives us the chance to make it spic and span, for when Sun Tzu may arrive, do you understand that?!"

Scout understood the English his commanding officer spoke well enough—making sense of it all was the taxing part. The young man was hardly even a mercenary of three years and even he could see the fundamental flaw in leaving their main asset of reconnaissance and commandeering behind to dust a few light fixtures. It seemed peculiar to the Bostonian that a veteran of three wars couldn't see a blatant discrepancy between his battle plans and those of the youngest and newest member of his battalion—Scout's battle plan being _Take the fuckin' Scout with you if you're gonna be cappin'._ It may not have had the ring of a military genius, but it was logical all the same.

Still, a Jane without his breakfast was not a Jane to dispute. Behind what little of the man's sleep lidded eyes Scout could actually see, he could sense finality in his orders directly proportionate to his weariness; Finality made only visually concrete when the man placed a dark green bucket at Scout's feet, the edges of which appeared crusted, whitened with mold and mildew. An equally frightening mop sits within the bucket, dyed sepia with ancient dirt. The fabric dreads clump together from an eternity sitting damp and improperly wrung out, congealed within itself.

_'Can't you get someone else to do this shit?!'_ Scout curses internally as he drops his head just slightly to look the bucket and its innards head on. The bitter, worn and filthy smell of rancid, stagnant water instantly floods Scout's nostrils and causes him to lose his appetite, his jaw slowing its chomping of the cold, hardened cluster of grits he'd been attempting for the last ten minutes to swallow.

"You've done me proud, Scout, however together with the Engineer we have constructed a battle plan Sun Tzu himself would crap his own armour over!"

_'Somethin' tells me Rick don't have nothin' to do with this plan of yours, 'nd that he prolly don't want no credit, either…'_

"And when he arrives from the Engineer's time travelling device he will walk across the whole entire base to find me in my barracks and he will comment on my superior tactics as well as the spotlessness of the building!" Jane growls, lifting his helmet to point one beady blue eye in Scout's direction.

_'How many times you plannin' on bringin' up this Sun Tzu dude…'_

"Uh, Soldier, I don't mean to question your tactics or your sanity or nothin'—"

"And you will not either, you hippie! Especially not in front of Sun Tzu—!"

"But uh, Badlands was the place on the map we had labeled with five depots points to cap if we wanted to seize it, right?!"

"Yessir!"

"So uh, maybe you should get like, I dunno, Dmitri or someone to stay here and clean? Sounds like a lotta cappin', and uh, I'm really the only class that can do that—"

"You never get anywhere if you don't take risks, son," is all Jane grunts in response, and as Scout raises his eyebrows, the nausea dissipating to the point where he may once again resume cautious chewing of the solidified cornmeal that sticks to the bottom of his metal bowl like claimingly edible igneous.

_'I'm pretty sure leavin' your only Scout behind to clean the toilet over some dead ass Chinese dude is why you ain't actually gettin' nowhere…'_

"Yeah, but—but Soldier—"

"Do not but me!"

"I—I kinda challenged their Sniper to a duel, and—"

"RED's Sniper, huh? That man is a crackpot shot, only two of my men have dared to challenge him to a duel and neither survived by the end of the day. I will tell you now it was a foolish idea to draw his dot onto you, no matter how fast you run,"

"Yeah, but if I don't show up he'll think I chickened out, I can't just stay back—!"

"You will, and that is an order! You are about as thin as my pinky anyway, kid! Stay back and eat a few sandwiches, gain some weight to those bones!"

'Yeah, maybe I'd eat more if you didn't have shit for food, Jane' Scout rolls his eyes as the broad shouldered American hoists himself to his feet like a wise old dog after a long day's nap. An actual sandwich hadn't been on the menu in months, much to both his and Mikhail's severe disappointment; at least not one whose "bread" didn't chip teeth or unsettle stomachs. With brown edges turned black, the whites of the rolls yellow and grey with what Soldier described as "experience", but what Scout knew better to discern as "old and left out in some nasty ass warehouse in who knew the fuck where". Or one whose cutlets weren't rancid and speckled with green and fuzzed over as if dropped in a sea of assorted feathers gathered about from questionable animals. Not to mention the condiments were all low fat.

As a shrill whistle blows, the chirrup signaling to the mercenaries that it was time to bus the plates, and dismiss the rumbles of their digestive systems for those of war instead. Scout can only watch his comrades as they toss their plates of slop into a rusted sink at the other end of the mess hall. Jane gives him a nod as if to confirm his dreadful pondering of whether or not the dishes were his to wash as well.

The Soldier had been talking about Sun Tzu's revival and his ascension from the basement for as long as Scout had been with BLU. The more Scout thinks about it (whilst keeping a keen eye on the dishes he washes, making sure he leaves behind no scraps of food on the rusted cutlery), it seemed Jane was always shouting about the Engineer's time machine and how this time, this time, the hours and hours the team had put into the mandatory Chinese Lessons he'd forced them all into would actually be put into practice.

"Bèn zhēn" Scout hisses mockingly under his breath, maintaining a natural and admirably believable Chinese accent all the while. His stomach constricts, as if his entrails had gone completely rigid, aligned and clogged with intricate knots.

_'Jack's gonna think I backed out…'_

"Dammit!" Scout actually swears aloud, chucking the plate back into grey water of the sink, the water itself thoroughly nontransparent, though he dares to stick a nice portion of his forearm into the sludge nonetheless…

_'He's gonna think I chickened out…'_

Yet again his insides cramp, Lawrence temporarily nonplussed by just how the Australian would react to his absence on the battlefield. He knew the man well enough to assume that he would never hear the end of it, first and foremost. They'd each played the role of dominated and dominator often enough over the course of their three year rivalry, but an actual duel, a pre-designated challenge of skill and wit…

_'He's gonna see I ain't there and think I fuckin' ditched like a bitch,'_

Yet again his stomach stiffens. With this particular pang of discomfort comes the rising of bilge, Scout burping queasily as an acidic hiccup opens speculation (both mentally and in the form of nearly dissolving his esophagus) as to whether or not his indigestion is food related as opposed to nerves. It wasn't as if the image of the red faced Australian, completely incapacitated with his deep laughter that almost wheezed its way out of him the longer the point of humour had him going, went to help settle it.

_'Don't bother sendin' me the card, love! Thirty seven's nothin' but a number, eh?_

"Fuck it," Scout spits, eyes narrowed with calm anger, angling the bucket so it rests under the faucet, rustic water splashing with dull, blunt thumps against the moldy plastic. He scowls as the fibers of the mop expand as the warm water loosens their browned, unified mass, the locks of the mop head submerged, wriggling in the murky cleaning water like gradiented worms.

-

It had taken Scout a whole nine hours without pauses to clean the entirety of the base save the Medibay. Whether it was an injured, barely living Scout being rushed to the basement, or a particularly jovial Scout with hands in his pockets and all his blood inside of his body - he'd always been fit to notice the cluttered look of the infirmary. Machines, tools, stretchers, surgical instruments all strewn about in a way that seemed oddly disheveled and chaotic for the meticulously particular German doctor.

Heinrich truly was a double sided coin, Scout had come to notice; the infirmary was always sanitized, white, brightly lit and accommodating for the road to recovery, though the Medibay, the operating room proper, was some sort of cross between a steel factory and an evil scientist's garage. All sorts of beeping instruments, all tinted iron grey or olive green, littered and surrounded every thinkable surface. Some machines even stacked upon each other. Blood soaked and streaked the walls and floors, evidence of half finished projects (most of them highly disturbing in nature) sat discarded in the corner, jarred and stored away carefully.

The instruments themselves synced in eerie rhythms of all sorts, with the sounds of flocking doves and the soft vibrato of their purls. Heinrich had a certain affinity for all sixteen of his doves. They were gentle and curious, though each had a disposition to them, so both he and Medic could easily tell the difference between them all. Despite caring dearly for the man and his birds, Scout cannot say he greets the final room of the base with anything other than sheer animosity.

"Figures," Scout spits under his breath, taking a look about the Medibay. He's rather glad the lighting is so dim, thus masking the magnitude of his cleaning tasks. "Yeesh, it's even messier than it was last time I was down here…" Scout grumbles. He brushes his hands across a whirring contraption, metallic dust caking his glove and mingling with the wet exterior.

He drops the bucket to the linoleum floor; the liquid swishes sickly, spilling over the edge and leaving a white residue where the moisture works to dissolve the layer of dirt it washed away. "Where would I rather be," Scout sighs, raising his head to look the ceiling head on, the ancient light fixture rusted completely. "On the field fightin' Jack or in here playin' housewife in a German's doctor's office?"

Any other place one would have labeled the young man insane for talking to empty air. The Bostonian smiles dully as a few of the doves not occupied with sleep flutter down to meet the familiar face, chirping deeply as if with their calls they meant to answer his question.

"You guys makin' all this mess?!" he teases, sighing as bird droppings litter the room unceremoniously in Heinrich's battle caused absence. "Which one o'ya is the shit machine?!" He pulls the gloves off his forearms, cupping a pudgy bird in the palms of his hands, kissing its yellow beak. "Doc ain't gonna be too happy with you guys."

Scout lets him flutter away toward a perch higher up, letting the mop suction itself to the ground. He pushes it about in lazy strokes about the linoleum floor. Trying not to lose his breakfast, he watches the coal coloured water spread about, the wet dreads of the mop brushing over puddles of dried blood over and over until they finally disintegrate.

"It don't make no sense to me, Taco," Scout whispers out of the corner of his mouth to a dove who takes rest on his shoulder. "You'd think a Medic like Doc would take better care of his fuckin' surgery hidey hole,"

"What's he doin' in here, huh? Fuckin'—dismemberin' shit or somethin'?!" the young man shares a smirk with Taco, who blinks his black eyes before nibbling on his ear.

"It ain't like you'd tell me anyway, I know he has y'all bound to secrecy…"

"Lawrence!" Medic's weary voice croaks as he shuts the iron door, the addressed jumping as the fatigued man moves to join his comrade in the center of the room. He swears as he lifts a boot, nearly slipping on the mopped floor.

"Vat are you doing in here?! And vere have you been all day?! And vy is ze floor vet?!" his comrade heaves as he catches his breath, removing his glasses from the bridge of his nose and taking a seat on the recently cleaned metallic stretcher.

"You alright, Doc? You ain't lookin' too good…"

"I am fine Junge, save for ze fact zat I lost my mind looking for you all day today on ze field!"

"Nah Doc, I'm here," Scout grins sadly, gesturing about the darkened room. "Just cleanin'."  
>"I see zat, vat in ze vorld do you mean by zis, Lawrence?! Vhy are you mopping ze Medibay ven ve can barely get you to clean your own barrack?! Ze whole base looks like a palace in comparison to zis morning!"<p>

"Yeah, about that, I'll explain, but first you tell me how the battle went,"

"Vat battle," Heinrich spits darkly, tossing his coat aside and walking carefully to a birdfeeder, pouring more seed into the wooden hut. "It vas more akin to a slaughter,"

"What?! N—no one got killed, right Doc?"

"No, zank Goodness; zough I must say I spent ze whole day looking for you, vorried zat you had been killed—I did not know you vere staying behind, and ven I asked, ze Soldier mentioned you vere still here, but it's Jane, you cannot trust him completely," he adds darkly, organizing the room to his liking. "He is so aloof it is best to assume ze opposite of vat he says…"

"He'll get ya fuckin' killed 'cause he's so damn oblivious—seriously, Doc, your hair's fuckin' smolderin', don't seem to me like he went into battle today with very good plans,"

"Ha! I know, I say it every time, Lawrence, every time! But I svear to you, zere is no vay he can top how reckless his commands vere today—"

"Jeeze, if I had a nickel…"

"He had me Über ze Spy, Lawrence—"

"Ooo," Scout flinches. "Dmitri? He had you Kritz the dude?!"

"And ven Mikhail ran out of bullets he said it vould be a vaste to restock—"

"Fuckin' Jane, where is Mikhail, 's he alright?"

"Yes, yes, of course, he is fine, zey are simply upstairs eating…"

"Jeeze, sounds like shit went down, Doc…"

"Yes it did, but may you please tell me vy I do not hear from you all day only to find you cleaning my offices?!"

"It's a long story Doc—where's Porkchop?!" Scout asks quickly, scanning the ceiling above for the grey spotted dove.

"I zought I told you not to call him zat, Scout," Heinrich spits, imitating a dove call seconds later.

"What? Porkchop? 'S wrong with Porkchop? I like it,"

"It is a stupid name!"

"Archimedes ain't no better, 'least Porkchop makes sense," Scout smirks.

"It doesn't make sense at all!"

"You don't name pets after people, Doc, you name people after people,"

"Yet somehow you have a people name,"

"Prometheus is Taco,"

"Vat terrible names! Zey are bad and you should feel bad!"

"Bet you he'd like Taco better, though,"

"Ha! It is too bad ze experiment me and Rick have going is not ready! Ve vould ask Promezeus himself! Togezer viz ze Engineer I zink ve may have found a vay to understand animals,"

"What is it with you guys 'nd draggin' poor Rick into your crazy ass plans?! Jane was sayin' earlier he built a time machine for Sun Tzu just over in his lab and that he wanted the whole place clean for his arrival,"

"Oh, is zat vhy you vere not zere today at Badlands? I must say zat is a very silly reason, Scout,"

"Hey, it ain't like I'm disagreein' with ya," the young man pouts, letting a bird (whom Scout named Hot Dog) rest on his bare finger. "You guys prolly didn't even make it to the first damn point,"

"You are correct, ve did not,"

"You guys need me out there!" Scout boasts with the ever familiar haughtiness that came with the conversation of the battlefield. "I even had business to take care of out there! I challenged Jack to a duel, right?"

"Oo, Lawrence, I must say zat vas a risky choice. Ze man is an admirable shot; he never misses," Medic marks quietly, Scout turning his head as Heinrich takes what looks to be a set of human knee caps onto his desk and poking at them with a scalpel.

"It ain't like he shoots to kill me, you knew that before I did,"

"Hmph—vell draw him out zat vay and he may have no choice, if ze Administrator is vatching,"

"Yeah, well - Jack's birthday is comin' up, right?" Scout begins quietly, his stomach lurching painfully at the memory of the upcoming date. "And he hates birthdays. Dunno, why, just know he does. And - and so I said that if I won the duel today, he had to deal with me throwin' him a party and shit. But since I was stuck here, _cleanin'_, I lost by default. I can't do shit,"

"I - I see," Heinrich begins.

"But I wanna go out shoppin' anyway - but, I'm gonna need a ride, and, _well_, you're the only one on base with a car that could get me out there…"

"No, Junge, I absolutely _do not_ zink so-"

"C'mon, Doc, you're the only one who can help me out with this!" Scout actually finds himself _pleading_ at the back of the German man, whose hunched shoulders lock from either aggravation at the Scout's persistence or deep concentration on his scientific happenings; Scout couldn't tell which was the source of the tense anatomy, to be quite honest.

Heinrich turns around, forced to confront the young man, whose desperate eyes lie directly on him. He exhales in a finality of forfeit, placing a gloved hand on a surgical table upon which many sharpened tools of questionable purposes lie. A silence flutters about, sprinkling Scout with the realisation _that_ this is the first time in his whole three years of service in which he'd heard natural pulsation of the Medibay, void of screaming.

"Scout, I zink it is most unvise of a plan, especially if ze man is not partial to birzhdays as you claim. You lost your bet fair and square,"

"Fair and square?! I _had_ to stay behind!" Scout pouts, Medic pinching the bridge of his nose and scrawling on a clipboard so as to divert his attention from Scout.

"_How old vill he be?_"

"He'll be turnin' thirty seven, Doc,"

"Zhirty seven?! Vhy Scout, I zink he is old enough so zat a big deal mustn't be made on behalf of his birzhday,"

"Maybe to _you_, Chucklenuts, but he does so much for me, ya know?! The least I could do is get him somethin' nice for his damn _birthday_," Scout grumbles, Heinrich sparing not a moment in uttering his rebuttal.

"But if ze Sniper does not like birthdays as you claim, zhen _surely_ one vould zink getting him a gift vould do more to irritate him zan make him happy!"

"_YOU_ just don't feel like gettin' your fuckin' car outta the warehouse'n takin' me into town, fuckin' _lazy ass_!"

"_Apart_ from zat, Junge, do you not zink it vould be hard getting approval from Jane to leave ze base?! He vould vant to investigate everyzing about such a proposal! He may even vant to accompany us!"

"I don't give a shit if Jane crawls up my _ass_ for a week! It ain't like I'ma get'im a fuckin' card that says, 'Hey thanks for bein' my boyfriend, enemy Sniper!' 'n make Jane sign it! You know what?! Whatever, Doc," Scout snaps tiredly, tucking his hands in the front pockets of his dark grey trousers, casting a sour look to the side, eyes rooted at his feet.

"I'm sorry, Junge, I am simply doing vat I feel is best," Heinrich sighs, Scout kicking at the tiles of the floor with the toes of his cleat.

"Vhy don't you ask ze Engineer for some of his construction paper? I'm sure your Sniper vould be just as content viz a card; Mikhail has some glitter paints if you need zem, he likes to make crafts in his quiet time..."

"I said he was turnin' _thirty_ seven, Doc, not _seven_," Scout rolls his eyes, turning without another word and exiting the medibay with a distinct air of crushed feelings, Heinrich can't help but shake away.

-

"Scout, if you are going to preheat ze oven, zen start mixing ze ingredients!" Heinrich barks, tittering about and taking the large ceramic bowl into his hands, beating its contents into a confectionery paste.

"Ve vant zis to take as little time as possible, Jane vill certainly vant a piece if he knows zere is cake being baked!"

"Calm down, Doc!" Scout snaps as he wrenches the bowl from the towering German, who takes a rag from the sink and wipes down the counters, flour and drying egg sticking to their surfaces.

"You have melted chocolate in your hair, Junge, how in ze vorld did you manage zis mess?!"

Scout grins, flipping the bowl upside down and so the cake mix plops unceremoniously into the spring form pan.

"You vill need to give it a good hour to bake, an hour to cool, and a period for icing ze cake,"

"_Or_ we just take it outta the damn oven when it's finished, put some sprinkles on it, and give it to the wombat; he's just gonna burn it anyway, Doc," Scout tisks, Heinrich shaking his head disbelievingly.

"You two are unbelievably strange! Vhy bozer if he vill only destroy your gifts?!"

Though Medic simply massages his temples upon taking a look at the lean Scout covered head to toe in multiple coats of flour, and decides not to wait on the answer to the intriguing question.

"And ve do not need ze oven at six hundred degrees!" Heinrich barks, Scout shrugging innocently.

"You _said_ you wanted the cake to _bake_ faster, Doc, pick a story'n _stick_ with it, man!"

"Scout, maybe you should just go vait somevhere else vhile I take care of ze rest—"

"There's no way I'm lettin' _you_ put all the effort into Jack's birthday present!"

And Medic has to chuckle at how humourous it _would_ be if he'd been the one to make the RED Sniper the cake.

"No, Junge, ze cake does not go in ze _broiler_..."

Heinrich takes the pan from Scout's hands, placing it with ease into the blazing oven and closing the contraption, clasping his ungloved hands together.

"So now what?!"

"Vell, I suggest ve vait! Ze kitchen is locked down, and ze others seem to really be engaged in vatever it is zat is going on downstairs, so it gives anozher hour of seclusion," Heinrich nods, Scout plopping heavily in a chair next to the table.

"Thanks for your help, Doc..."

"Ach, of course, Scout..." Heinrich responds tenderly, clasping him upon his shoulder.

"I know, how it is. Hiding your love bozh because it is an infringement upon your loyalty, but also because ze masses find you_filthy_..."

"I wasn't no fag 'til I met Jack," Scout huffs, Heinrich emitting a soft mumble of attentiveness.

"But _tell_ me, Scout, iz ze altering of your sexuality not _vorzh_ it in ze end?! Vould you razher have your Sniper or ze ability to say you like vomen vhen you clearly do not?!"

"I mean - I dunno, it's just fuckin' _weird_. It's like - I love Jack for Jack, not 'cause he got a dick. But I can't never show him when I'm supposed to be killin' him,"

"Trust me, Scout, ze days in vhich I assisted ze Russian soldiers, zey felt neverending, as if I vould forever be forced to accept my defection, to hide myself for _multiple_ reasons! Zough vhen ve surrendered, it no longer mattered; it vas _over_—sure, love betveen two men vas and still is a concept of much belittling, but as time vent on, everyzhing vas easier to accept for myself, even vhen and vhere ozhers vould not,"

"...Yeah," Scout nods quietly, eyes pointed at his feet.

"You two're just so _romantic_," Scout sighs, Heinrich raising his eyebrows."Or at least when I'm around..."

"Vell, I know you have been making an effort to be more intimate wizh your Sniper..."

"Yeah, 'nd he—he's actually opening up t'me, a _lot_! I wasn't expectin' it, not after St. Louis...but it's been great, Doc. The last month, we've been really close. Jack gave me a second chance, after all that shit. I can tell neither of us are regrettin' it,"

"Vell zat is vonderful! I honestly didn't zink you two vould be able to recover from ze experience,"

"Somethin' changed, Doc—he's still a fuckin' _dick_, but he still got softer, warmer, 'nd I try not t'be too stubborn—that don't mean I'm his _bitch_, though!" Scout quickly adds, Heinrich however smirking, deciding against mentioning that the Bostonian currently sat cook book in hand with an apron around his waist, gushing out his _feelings_ on Sniper's behalf.

"Ze zought never crossed my mind..." Heinrich assures him.

"I mean, y'know, I've been thinkin' 'bout _marriage_ with'im lately,"

"Vhat?! But you two—your relationship is so young!"

"I ain't said I bought the damn _ring_, Doc, but it's like every time I got a free moment I just gotta shut my eyes, 'nd all I can think about is bein' with him, on a ranch somewhere in the Lucky Country, just the two'o us—none of this RED or BLU shit, no_Luc_, 'n no Jane always needin' t'know everything...

Like, I even think about the _wedding_, Doc—everything would be golden, 'n Ma would be'n tears, my bros would be cheerin' me down to the altar—'nd he'd just be waitin' there for me..."

"Hopefully he vould spare ze hat on his own special day!" Heinrich sighs, obviously amused by the dreaming Scout who sits across from him.

"Well, yeah, both of us would—'nd he wouldn't wear his glasses, either, so I could see those grey eyes'o his—'nd as I come marchin' down, he gets this wide ass _smile_ on his face, and we're just standin' there'nd we say our vows and all that gay shit, 'nd _Doc_, he'd kiss me and he'd never let go," Scout trails off, drawing his knees to his chest.

"Some girly ass _shit_, Doc, 'n that's what he said by _'he'd ruin me'_; I ain't who I used t'be, ya know?! Wakin' up kinda hurt 'cause I ain't married t'that piss throwin' bastard...it's fuckin' stupid, but I can't help how I feel!" Scout scoffs.

"You really vant to marry him?"

"I wanna be with him forever—! But don't tell'im I told ya this shit, alright?! He made fun o'me earlier when I told him about it—I mean, I love him, Deutschbag, everything about 'im! I wonder if he feels the same way 'bout me, like would he-he—do ya think he would ever _propose_ to me, Doc?!" Scout asks with a hysterical hopefulness, and Heinrich shifts in his chair as he dwells upon how to answer.

"I do not know him very vell, or even at all save vhat you have told me and a few 'choice encounters'—Mikhail and I have been togezher for tventy _years_, and I am _still_ vaiting for him to get on his knee—zough out here ve must keep our mission on ze line, othervise ve are doomed for failure,"

"Typical German response,"

"Vell, Scout, it is after all vhy romances in the midst of var are prohibited! You become much too caught up in all zis! Vhen vas ze last time you made a lunge for ze intel zat vasn't completely tainted by ze Sniper in some vay?! Ve are forever at a stalemate because neizher side is pushing ze ozher!"

"Yeah..."

"Ze cake is almost finished, Junge," Heinrich responds softly, running a sympathetic hand through Scout's cropped hair.

-

Scout shifts with a load moan, cracking his back and tailbone, his hiding spot behind the bedside cupboard proving to be highly uncomfortable after a good hour. The van, empty and completely black in its vacancy, causes Scout's eyes to constantly have to readjust with each movement he makes, hoping to God Sniper would appear soon so he could surprise the man with his gifts.

The lights and cheering from the base, Scout presumes, must be correlated to the celebration of the RED marksman's birthday, thus it only made sense for the man to be in _there_ rather than hocked away in his van for a change.

He must have dozed off, Scout concludes as he jumps, startled out of slumber as the van door closes, the warm chuckle of Sniper emanating from the van's sitting room; he must've had a good time with his comrades, despite his dickish refusal to_admit_ it.

"Y'in here, Lawrence?!" Sniper calls, and Scout curls himself tighter, hiding himself with a curling smile on his face.

"Guess not," Sniper grumbles, and somewhere in the depths of a van a telephone can be heard, and the shuffling of feet as Sniper heads to answer it.

Pressing his ear against the wall, Scout means to steal a listen, the tired, systematic responses of his friend seeping through the foundation.

"...Oi, got plans—y'know, with a little friend'o mine—'course I got _friends_, Mum—! Yes, Mum, he's - he's just a friend. _No, not one o'those types o'friends..._..." Jack explains quietly to his mother, scratching behind his neck. "_Mum_, stop cryin', it's not that serious!" Sniper laughs into the phone, and Scout smiles softly at the sound of the muffled questioning of the Australian's mother.

"'Course I'm glad y'called, Mum. 'S nice t'know y'still care t'talk to me, eh..." Sniper, and Scout inches his way into the sitting room, the silhouette of his Sniper spilling along the walls and floor.

"'s right sweet of'er, tell'er if I don't get the card I'm thankful anyway—" but Sniper gasps as Scout wraps his arms around the lanky frame from behind, resting a head on his shoulder.

"Your Ma ain't the only one who has to wish ya a happy birthday, wombat," Scout's grin so devilish Sniper can hear it in his voice, the older man so caught up in the feel of Scout's frame that he misses a straight thirty seconds of his mother's dialogue.

"Look, Mum, gotta go..." Sniper attempts to keep his breath even as Scout kisses his neck gently, his hand curling along his abdomen.

"Remember when I said I had plans? Right—thanks for the birthday wishes—tell Leslie I love 'er, 'nd tell Dad I lo—say hey— if he doesn't pretend he doesn't know me. Love y'too, Mum," and in a split second of aggressive inquisition Sniper drops the phone onto the cradle before turning around and wrangling the chuckling Bostonian.

"Gets ya every time," Scout sighs, Sniper growling and meeting Scout's disapproving scowl.

"Oi! Nice o'you t'finally show your face, eh?"

"Pff,"

"Noticed y'weren't anywhere t'be found after challengin' me to a duel,"

"Don't even start, Jack, it was Jane's fault," Scout growls, inching closer toward the man, who eyes the wall clock on the floor. 11:53 pm. "I ain't afraid of you; we both know that," Scout sneers.

"Too bad - our conditions were y'win, y'throw me a party," Jack begins hastily.

"Don't matter, I ain't never one to listen to the rules no way," Scout snaps, tossing the man a small white box, Sniper frowning slightly as his eyes adjust to read the word "laxatives", Sniper narrowing his eyes and chucking them at the hysterical young man who clutches his sides in whooping laughter.

"Nice one, y'bloody _mutant_," Sniper shakes his head, smirking nonetheless.

"I remember my Gramps havin' problems usin' the shitter when he was in his eighties, figured I'd save ya couple bucks and a few uncomfortable nights yourself—"

"I swear t'God, Lawrence Fitzpatrick..."

"Maybe I shouldn't give ya your second one, you'll beat me t'death with it!" and Scout tosses him a dull grey cane, Sniper slowly raising his gaze to meet Scout's with a raised eyebrow.

"Where in the Hell did ya buy this shit?!"

"I ain't tellin' ya! No returns, slugger!" Scout wags his finger, reminding himself internally to thank Heinrich for letting him pick the Medibay as his own personal gift shop.

"Now when you throw your hip out there, you got some support!"

"Cute!"

"Cake's waitin' for ya in the kitchen—"

"Ya baked me a _bloody_ cake—?!"

"Yeah, it's chocolate with strawberry jam in between the layers and you're gonna eat it, you dick,"

"Alright, alright, don't _kill_ me, now!"

"Yeah, and it smells good as Hell, too!"

"Can't believe you, makin' cakes like a bloody housewife—"

"And that ain't all, y'still got another gift!"

"What is it, diapers?! A hover round?!"

"You really _are_ gettin' blind, Jack!" Scout chuckles, grabbing Sniper's hands and running them down his own body.

"Holy _Dooley_, love," Sniper whispers as he turns red, biting down on his lower lip as even the slight tug of his fingers threatens to loosen the intricate wrappings of the ribbon around his body.

"I think you get the picture," Scout chuckles at Sniper's dumbfounded stare, the man curling his fingers against the ribbon that wraps itself around the otherwise naked body of his Scout.

"'s hot, gremlin," Sniper nods, running his hands along the entirety of Scout's body, his fingers twirling in the bow that twists itself against his back. "I'll give it to ya. 'S pretty damn hot,"

"You gonna throw me in the _shredder_, mate?" Scout asks quietly in the best imitation of his accent he can muster, Sniper sighing gently at the feel of Scout's hand trailing into his trousers, quickly finding the hardness that begins to form itself inside them.

"Fuck, Lawrence, I'll _shred_ ya alright—"

"Hopefully you ain't too old t'get me off, wombat," Scout warns, pushing the Australian so he falls against his mattress, Scout crawling on top of him seconds later.

"_Bugger_ me, love..." Sniper sighs from disbelief, Scout however winking and tugging on the man's vest.

"That was kinda the plan, chucklenuts," Scout laughs before placing a soft kiss upon his Sniper's mouth, Sniper instantly grabbing hold of the ribbon and weaving it from the Bostonian's flesh.

So maybe his thirty seventh won't be such a bad one after all.


	27. Infectious

"I'm a grown man, Scout, a grown man who's seen all kinds'o shit'n who's lived in all sorts'o places; 's no need't worry 'bout me jus' 'cause y'maybe don't catch me out the glimpse'o your eye for a few hours! You'll drive yourself mad if you obsess over stupid details like _that_. My own _mum_ doesn't even work'erself up over where I am like you do; don't get me wrong, gremlin, I love ya'nd keep an eye out for ya too, _always_, but I can handle m'self, 'nd I know you've got your _own_ back covered. 'S another thing; Don't ever forget 'bout your own safety, 'n'specially don't become so bogged down over thoughts'o me that you lose track'o your sense of engagement during battle!"

The three week old words of Sniper played in a continuous round, Scout's mind filling with noise, resonating in the clearest timbre any of his memories had ever been known to be. Every scathing nuance of the man's tone etches into Scout's auditory sense of recollection as if the lanky Australian were reassuring him of his self reliance now, in this very moment.

Yet against the judgment of the man Scout would say he held rather dear to himself, despite Sniper's insistence, he can only sit with his thin lips tugging downwards in an anxious state of contemplation, the mystery surrounding Sniper's location having been an uncracked enigma since having last _seen_ each that night nearly three weeks ago to begin with.

He uncrosses his legs, placing his bare feet against the cold marble floor, his bunk creaking as the displacement of weight rocks the flimsy metal bedframe. Scout scans the battlefield below, lifting and unbolting the sil and sticking his head out of the window, Spring taking an aggressive swipe at the Bostonian and rushing bursts of earthy wind in clouds of refreshing breath into his bedroom.

The sun, setting slowly on this fine Monday, leads its downward path to the closure of yet another day, leaving an orangish trace on the eggshell tinted walls (Scout liked the warmth of the peachy white compared to the original slate grey, and found he did a rather _good_ paint job himself).

Plastered along them are small, ripped and somewhat faded posters of the Sox he'd had since childhood, a round mounted clock and a spotted mirror next to the dresser pressed against the wall, a few letters his brothers had sent him since his deployment to 2Fort sticking out haphazardly from a drawer that can barely close, it is stuffed so full.

Scout glances over the details of his bedroom in an attempt to sway his mind from the startling anxiety that rushed his heart and dampened his palms with the sweat of fear driven excretion, an obsessive compulsive swivel of his eyes preoccupying him just enough so that he successfully prevents the brutal images of a horribly maimed Sniper suffering under the dregs of a death that seems unable to come.

So maybe Scout was a little more than _worried_ on Sniper's behalf. So maybe his teeth clacked a little bit and his heart throbbed in a violent pace, straining on his breast and lungs as he tried to catch a soft breath. And sure, _maybe_ Scout wouldn't rest until finding Sniper on his own.

Scout takes a light jacket from somewhere off his cluttered floor, zipping the fabric so it hugs his chest, Scout not even bothering in his one tracked dash to don his usual cap or headset. His pace quickens as he takes two frantic looks left and right, the residential wing of the base empty, though he can hear the faint echoes (or rather _screams_, Scout concludes with an eerie tug in his stomach) of Demoman and the exasperated barks of Heinrich seeping from down below in the cavernous medibay.

He picks up a sprint like pace (though someone of Scout's speed mustn't exactly _try_ for such a stride), the boy gasping a little as his heart pumps, fueled by the source of emotional and physical stimulation. The traction of his cleats however prove themselves to be less than reliable as his feet slip about in wobbly tremors, the smell of disinfectant implying that their neat freak of a Pyro had been mopping again.

Scout however does not trip as he stumbles, sliding his way past the main resupply and skipping a few of the wooden steps in the courtyard, the boy biting down on his lip as it comes down to the decision to take either the pipes or the general exit of the bridge.

"Hoer auf zu weinen, Dummkopf! So viel Weh tut es ja auch nicht!" Medic's voice seeps from the basement, Scout stopping in his tracks to steal a further listen, overcome with intrigue.

"I don't _understand_ ye, Doc—_GWARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!"_

"If you are not understanding me, zen ze experiment is proving to be a failure! Beweg dich nicht und gerade gucken—"

Scout winces as the devastating screams of the Demoman can be heard from the basement once more, Scout all too familiar with he Doc's "German Speaking" Experiments—this theory that, with just the right voltage, he can manipulate one's brain into understanding German through _shock treatment..._

He whistles at the reminder of own his days as a "test subject", the phrase, "verstehst du mich jetzt oder muss ich's nochmal versuchen?!" still sending shivers through Scout's traumatised mind and memory.

Still, it matters little when Scout's mind flutters back onto Sniper and his whereabouts, the Bostonian nodding as he makes a break for the bridge, hoping no REDS are keeping a defensive watch—

"ONE MORE TIP TOE SON'N YOU'LL BE WISHIN' YOU WERE NEVER BORN!"

'_Jane_' Scout groans internally, his arms falling to his side defeatedly and Scout slumps into a deflated grimace, the stocky Soldier marching in step with his shotgun over his shoulder, the man's unclasped helmet bouncing wildly in his stride. He'd heard his comrades joke in the past that Jane had a tendency to catch them all at the worst of times, some of them being caught even more than once. Despite the warnings and tired sighs he'd experienced through second hand on the red blooded Soldier's behalf, Scout could never say he was expecting to experience the inconvenience himself.

Scout hadn't counted on _Jane_ alright.

"Look at me when I am talking to you, Private!" The man barks, and Scout twists around in aggressive, unamused surprise, Soldier prodding his chest with an intrusive forefinger.

"One more step and you would have been out of bounds, boy! Do you know what that means?!"

"I—uh—_what_?"

"I asked you a _question_, Scout!"

"I—uh—n-_no_"

"No _sir!_"

"No—_sir_..."

"You would have been in direct violation of Ordinance 25-3C, look it up! All mercenaries are restricted to the confines of their respective bases for the exact duration of twenty four hours after battle!"

"Does it look like I give a flyin'—?!"

"DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK, PRIVATE?!"

Scout grumbles, but decides that at this point, staying silent and letting the man ramble until out of steam would be the best course of action.

"I HAVE KILLED TOO MANY KRAUTS IN COLD BLOOD TO BE RIDICULED IN FRONT OF MY OWN COMPANY!"

_'...what company?!'_

"You think you're so tough, with that smirk?! Looks like we've got ourselves a troublemaker, boys!"

_'Who else is he fuckin' talkin' to?!'_

"You like bendin' _rules_, boy?! How about I bend your _spine_ and eat your _ribs_, traitor—!"

"Jane, 's'alright!" Scout sighs, making slight shoving motions with his hands to calm the fellow American down. "You ain't gotta fuckin' _eat_ me, shit—!"

"If you even _think_ of stepping out of this base things will not be _alright_, Sally!" Soldier snaps, clicking his heels and placing his fingers to his helmet in an "L" formation.

_'Dude is fuckin'__quackers,'_ Scout shakes his head, inching his way past the stout man and headed back toward the battlements.

"I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO LEAVE! DROP AND GIMMIE TWENTY, BOY! HUP! ONE! TWO! THREE—"

Scout wheezes as he keeps up with Soldier's calls, shaking his head solemnly all the while and trying to ignore the curling antsiness that staggers with each adrenaline surging push up he provides for Soldier's satisfaction.

"Jane! Vhat is ze reason for all zis _noise?!_"

_'oh thank God; someone with a little bit of fuckin' sense—!'_

"Good day, Doc! Lawrence, our designated Scout, was seen at 1800 hours attempting to escape the perimeters of BLU base—an automatic breach of international law—!"

"Spare me ze details, I could hear you from ze medibay, Quazzelbaer! You are being ridiculous! Do you even have proof ze Scout vas attempting to leave?!"

"A _real_ Soldier does not _need_ proof, Field Medic!"

"Doc!" Scout whimpers, Soldier shrieking and prodding the boy's back with his standard shovel.

"I did not permit you to stop, boy!"

"Jane, I do not vish to pry on the disciplining of your cadets, but I sent ze boy to fetch me some metal down from ze pipes, in ze deposit ve have near ze emergency medikits—you are impeding upon my experiments, upon _science_!"

"Gah, why didn't you say so?! Dismissed, boy! But do not let me catch you outside of this base, or I will have your contract_terminated_!"

"Sir, yes...sir," Scout stands at a half hearted attention, Heinrich standing behind him with eyebrows raised nearly into his hairline.

"Good day! Ten HUT!"

With the clanks of Soldier's gear and iron helmet, the man leads a one man march toward the battlements, shooting sharply around the corner.

"Thanks man," Scout whispers, shaking his head and grimacing after the long waddled Soldier. "What the _fuck_ is up with Jane?! He's fuckin' _nuts_!" Scout sighs, though he chuckles darkly as he tries to name _one_ person on the team who _wasn't_; maybe Engineer—then again he rather _enjoyed_ mutilating himself, and Scout often had to wonder if engineering was only some sort of thin pretense for the butchering he wrought unto himself...

"You know he upholds ze decrees viz much importance, vhy in all ze vorld vould you attempt leaving ze base if you knew he vas vatching?!"

"I didn't know he was right there, Doc, fuckin' whacko just showed up outta nowhere!"

"Be more careful next time, Scout, you know he vill not hesitate to discharge you over ze smallest zing!"

"Right, Doc, but I don't give two shits 'bout no contracts right now—"

"Scout, vhy are you insisting upon being so _reckless_—?!"

"I ain't even bein' reckless, man, I'm just—" Scout casts a longing look toward the sealed exit of the base, Heinrich twisting his eyebrows in though.

"Is zere somezing vrong viz your Sniper?! Is zis the cause of your mood and desire to go outside?!"

"—I—I dunno if there's anything wrong, Doc, that's what I'm goin' t'see—how'd you know he was involved...?!"

"You are about as predictable as you are fast, Junge!" Heinrich smiles warmly, Scout's face reddening instantly. "Othervise you have no business outside of ze base, unless I am wrong—"

"Nah, Doc...spot on, actually," Scout sighs, Heinrich nodding. "You're good..."

"I figured, zough if you vish to conceal your relationship, zis is not necessarily good news on your behalf..."

"What ain't?!"

"Zat you are so predictable on his account!"

"Nah, you're the only one who knows..." Scout grimaces, finding no reason for mentioning the Frenchman. "'cept Lard Fat, but I doubt he's got the capacity to remember..."

"You make fun of him, Scout, but if you spoke Russian, I believe you vould be blown avay by how intelligent he actually is!" Heinrich grins, Scout smirking disbelievingly.

"I know, you laugh, but ze Heavy in his native language is a completely different man!"

"I believe ya, Doc!" Scout beams, though it falters as he twists to face the bolted exits of the base.

"I vill not keep you, Scout, go deal viz your Sniper—but be vary of vatchful eyes,"

"You ain't gotta worry, Doc," Scout smiles softly, Heinrich donning a gentle smile in response to Scout's nodding, the German observing intently as he slips through the iron door with ease, darting into the shadows as he slips past the courtyard and across the bridge that creaks much too loud in moments when ambiguity as to the existence of a presence upon them are most necessary.

Regardless, Scout's eyes waiver gently as they lock onto the camper that sits parked a considerable distance away from the RED fortress, and as Scout makes a silent dash he is known for toward its location, his breath quickens and his stomach muscles are so taught he has no need to heave gasps of air in his stride.

Who cared about watchful eyes and doubled glances, there was nothing to see but a running boy, after all, a concept so devoid of entertainment or intrigue even the natural vibe of wildlife continues along its path, the wind not even whistling in his ears as he slices through it, as if it were too bored to follow him along his determined race to the trailer.

It helped, the possession of legs of hypersonic proportions and running _fast_, for by time one's eyes registered the swoop of his mass he was already long, long gone...

He pants a bit as he rests his hands on his knees, sparing in between his hiccups an overwrought knock upon the metallic though thin sheet of door, nearly denting the damn thing in his excitement.

Scout's ears tune up instantly however at the sound of mumblings and maneuvering from within, lifting his gaze expectantly as the Australian wrenches the door open to reveal the sweaty boy before him, though Scout notices a weakness in the force applied in the determination of the door's swing.

"Oi, love, 's jus' you—figured it would be," Sniper grins calmly, saying nothing else as he retreats back into the camper, though leaving the door open behind him so as to silently imply Scout has his permission to enter. His heart races as he does just that indeed, pulling the latch behind him and confirming his being in Sniper's van, though the high of his worry ebbs away as, in an anti-climatic conclusion, Scout realises he'd been worried for nothing; Sniper'd only been in the damn van the whole time...

"'s awfully moist in here, wombat," Scout sniffs, calling back at the man who bustles in the back near the bedroom. "You turnin' the thing into a rainforest or somethin'?!"

Though Scout's smirk wavers a bit as he yields a fit of wet coughs and throaty wretches as well as a mechanic whirring in response.

"No, love," Sniper whispers hoarsely, attempting to rumple his face into a friendly smile reminiscent of the natural haughty scowl he typically harnessed any other day Scout had come to visit. "Not a fan 'o the tropics..." Sniper whispers, a few seconds passing before he directs his attention back onto the Bostonian.

"Y'sure y'wanna come back t'the bedroom, gremlin?" Sniper asks warily, Scout nodding as he follows the lanky man and his stagger back to his sleeping quarters, the man instantly collapsing upon his disheveled bed and bringing the palm of his hand to his forehead.

Scout twists a bit, jumping slightly as he brings his cleat off the floor, narrowly avoiding a nest of dirtied tissues grouped together beside a nearly empty waste bin (funny, considering Sniper was a master of aim and precision). He looks up in the middle of his step _around_ the kleenexes, a humidifier purring on his bedside and emitting moisture about the bedroom, Scout nodding in understanding and seating himself on the edge of the man's bed, running an affectionate hand through the man's hair and cheek.

"You feelin' alright, Jack?" Scout inquires gently, Sniper moaning and shifting gingerly upon his bed, curling into a new position, though the same miserable mouthing still tarnishes his rugged profile.

"Dunno if _'alright'_s a word I'd use for m'self when I can hardly breathe..."

Scout bites down on his lower lip, his heart sinking at the sight of Sniper's puffed, grainy cheeks and pinkened, irritated nose, the man's lips chapped and dehydrated; Scout can even see his puffy eyelids between the cracks of his fingers.

"Woudn't touch me if I were you, love, 'less you want the bloody flu..." Sniper can barely mumble, hand still fanned over his shut eyes, and Scout retracts his hand gradually.

"Y—Ya sure it's alright if I stay? You look pretty beat, Jack," Scout sighs, Sniper chuckling a single, tired laugh.

"I mean—now isn't exactly what I'd call _ideal_ timin' for your little visits, but I's just sittin' here thinkin' 'bout how much I miss ya—so's up t'you—" but Sniper is interrupted by a violent coughing fit, Scout flinching unnoticeably as he can almost feel the germs fluttering and settling themselves into his respiratory system like infectious snowflakes.

"Bloody gross, I am—can hardly talk—but it doesn't matter love, wos wrong?"

"...Nothin', man," Scout whimpers, his heart breaking in half as he takes a quick survey of the noxious bedroom.

"Can I get you somethin'?" Scout asks dotingly, Sniper nodding a little as he parts his lips.

"A little mug'o the tea I have goin'd be real nice, love,"

"Yeah, 'course," Scout pats Sniper again before hoisting himself off the bed, the marksman nodding his head languidly as Scout makes his way from the bedroom.

"Thanks, Lawrence."

Scout nods and treads his way lightly into the kitchen, Sniper's whooping coughs echoing throughout the camper that seems much too _small_ in this particular visit.

It certainly made no sense, Scout grumbles, dipping the scalding water from the saucepan into a coffee mug, lips anchored beneath his teeth in laborious contemplation. Twenty four hours ago the Australian had been _beyond_ healthy, his voice golden and audible as his moans'd mangled with Scout's own yesterday in the Sniper nest, his ability to _breathe_ up to it's usual standards as the kisses they shared seemed never ending before they would finally break apart...

'He certainly wasn't _hackin'_ during sex, that was for sure...'

Scout dips a teabag into the steaming liquid, cupping the warm ceramic and easing his way back into Sniper's bedroom.

"Sit up, wombat," Scout grins, Sniper taking the mug gently before curling his lips around its edge, sipping at the remedy and creasing his eyes in bitter reception.

"You sure you shouldn't go see your Doc, dingo?! Feel like the air in here ain't too good for ya..."

"Doc's already seen me, pumped full'o whatever magical shit'e's got in that medibay'o his—" he hacks violently, Scout grimacing as the man spits into a kleenex, sparing Scout no image of the green mucus, making an attempt to throw it in the garbage and missing all the while—

"_Sick, Jack—!_"

"Oi, I'd reckon _sick_'s 'bout right, considerin' I've been sittin'ere pukin' my bloody guts out all day—sorry for not lookin' like a show horse, wasn't 'xpectin' the _company_—"

"You were fine yesterday, man!"

"What in the world, 're you _mad?!_ _Yesterday_ I couldn't even move without spewin' my bloody insides all over the damn van!" Sniper snaps, Scout raising a confused eyebrow.

"Uh, no, slugger, yesterday you were just fine!"

"Don't take me for actin' sassy, love, but I think I'd know where it was I was, considerin' I was the one lyin' 'bout in m'own filth'n doin' the hurlin'—"

"You must gotta memory worse than goldfish, dude, 'cause you were just fine when I was suckin' your dick yesterday—"

"Oi?!" Sniper perks up, Scout raising his eyebrows and giving the man a frazzled "Uh, yeah!".

"Pretty sure I'd remember my little Scout givin' me a nice one—'nd I sure as Hell ain't got no memory'o it!"

"Musta ridden you so hard you got amnesia! I guess ya fucked me 'til you forgot about it!" Scout snaps crudely, Sniper's eyes widening and the man flushes an instant red, though the hue of his embarrassment is shades lighter than that of the red staining his sickly cheeks.

"Shit, dingo, it was the best sex we ever had!" Scout beams, Sniper growing sheepish at the boy's enthusiasm.

"Scout, I ain't tryin' t'be funny, but I really, _really_ think I'd remember havin' _the best sex_ with ya within the last two days, love, 'specially when I've been too beat t'take care _o'manly business_ since catchin' this damn thing from Tavish—"

"What do you mean...?" Scout asks warily, marking the seriousness in Sniper's expression and tone.

"I mean I've been too sick these last three days to even please m'self let alone _your_ jumpy arse, that'n I haven't seen ya in that long! 'S why I figured you were visitin', 'cause you had no idea where I'd been since whenever that was Sun Tzu got loose!"

"Well, I was wonderin' why I hadn't seen ya since _yesterday_..." Scout corrects, growing worried as Sniper shows no signs of letting up from his claim.

"I didn't see ya yesterday love, 's wot I'm tryin' t'tell you..." Sniper grunts, catching a glimpse of Scout's alarmed gaze.

"Don't get me wrong, love, I wish what y'were sayin' was true, 'n we'll make it so once I feel better—but I'm bein'a hundred percent serious when I say I haven't moved from this bloody bed at all since before makin' tea'n lettin' you in,"

"Seriously?!"

"Dinky, di," Sniper nods, coughing before lying flat against his back again, massaging his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"You'nd I didn't do anythin'o that _sort_ yesterday—or anythin'o _any_ sort—I'ven't been on the battlefield since last Friday'n unless I'm batshit mad'nd I really _did_ bugger ya, there's a real convincin' me goin' around you've been diddlin' since I've been'n bed, Scout..." Sniper whispers solemnly, Scout's glance glazing in a sudden disgusted fit of realisation.


	28. The Challenge

"Would ya just stop _fidgetin_' for a moment'n just enjoy the scenery?!"

Scout tenses up and Sniper chuckles, craning his neck just slightly to catch a glimpse of the young man who sits on his lap.

"I didn't say turn into a _statue_—relax, Lawrence,"

Sniper pulls Scout's shoulders back, his frame loosening and falling against Sniper's chest. "Mmh?" he growls, catching the young man's eyes in a curious glance. "'S wrong, love?"

"I don't wanna catch your germs..." Scout attempts to snap, though he squirms drowsily against Jack, his weary voice muffled as he grumbles into the crook of his neck. "I'm not contagious anymore, I told ya already—haven't had a bloody cough in three days..."

The Australian also leans further so his back rests lazily against the warm metal of the camper's exterior. He closes his eyes, glasses dangling off his nose, their hats cast away somewhere, though ultimately it mattered little as that 'somewhere' wasn't atop their heads. His mind blanks out to a soothing hum as the once restless Scout in his arms dozes off, his soft breathing a keyless lullaby for the both of them.

Even in his half conscious slip into slumber, Jack allows his ungloved hands to curl in Lawrence's hair and against his waist, Scout's own arms draped around the older man's neck.

So much for enjoying the scenery—the darkened, endless hills that rolled into flat, vibrant fields—though now they were shades of grey and midnight blue, for the sun had long since set. As a matter of fact, Sniper reads 10:38 on his watch exactly, closing his eyes quickly afterward and allowing the residual heat of the season to bake his skin alongside the natural heat of Scout.

He loved it when Lawrence was _quiet_.

"Love you, mongrel..." he whispers in Scout's unattentive ear, kissing the tip of it—to Hell with _germs_.

But Jack's stomach drops down to his feet in a clenching lurch, for Scout's eyes are open once more, his head still against Sniper's shoulders.

"Thought you were sleepin'—" the Australian clears his throat sheepishly, and Lawrence gives his head a soft shake, blinking slowly.

And so a silence nestles between them, though it certainly isn't unpleasant or awkward; regardless, Sniper can only let an affectionate hand plow a soft course through Scout's thickening hair (it'd been a while since his last cut—it was a handsome look, he notes).

"Y'alright?"

"Yeah...'course..." Scout sighs, peering past Sniper's orange frames and straight into his grey eyes. Jack smiles expectantly as Lwrence's eyelids drop and his mouth parts just a little, the man instantly meeting his kiss with subdued passion. They allow themselves a solid thirty seconds worth of deep pecks, Scout's lips catching in Sniper's, suctioned in gently by his enthusiasm.

"You're fallin' asleep again!" Sniper chuckles, the young man nodding halfheartedly, yawning widely in response. "S'about time y'get back t'your base anyway, don't want your lot wonderin' where you skip off to..."

"Heinrich is keepin' 'em busy with stories, Jack! I don't wanna go back inside!" he whines, though Sniper stands to his feet, cracking his muscular back in a sluggish twist.

"I know, but we've been out here all day, y'gotta make an appearance sometime or Jane'll start givin' ya a curfew again,"

"I guess..." Scout pouts, Sniper patting his puckered cheeks. He lets his hand lace with Lawrence's, jerking his head softly in the direction of BLU's distant base.

"What, you still worried 'bout that whole buggerin' business? I'm sure it's nothin', C'mon, now. I'm prolly just forgettin', you're gettin' worked up for nothin',"

Scout sighs in an aggravated huff, but allows his step to be led by Sniper.

"Bucker up, love, mission starts early tomorrow, 'nd I want you on top of yourself so you're somethin' more than target practice..."

"Dude, that granary is fuckin' _ours_! I'ma cap so fast time is gonna start goin' backwards!" Scout snaps in a sudden rejuvenation, his lively eyes narrowed from aggression.

"Not if I can help it!"

"You can tell your fuckin' Scout—whasisname?! Fuckin' Samuel?! Tell 'im he ain't even gonna get a chance t'_see_ the fuckin' point!"

"I'm gonna laugh tomorrow when your arse is sittin' in the medibay with a broken ankle after the first minute,"

"You _would_ fuckin' laugh over me sufferin'n in pain!"

"Nah, 's you eatin' your own words with a nice steamin' pile o'shit I pay t'see—you gettin' dominated is all jus' part o'the process," Jack chuckles, staggering a bit in his step as Lawrence's prideful smirk is delivered side by side with a playful punch as well.

"Don't lemmie find you and your little campin' spot," Scout growls, walking ahead of Sniper, turning his head back to glare at him over his shoulder. "I'll fuck your eyes up, mate!" he growls further, Sniper narrowing his eyes in a twisted smile of expectancy; he _loved_ Scout's heated words and self assured threats—especially before sex. The young man's conscious attempt to come out 'on top' after a nice verbal spurring only made him that much harder to work for.

"Not if I gut ya, first!"

"So sounds t'me like it's a duel ya want, wombat!" Lawrence stops and turns around to face the Australian, cocking his hip in his smug stance.

"Only if you're up for the arse kickin',"

"Pshht—"

And Jack gasps a little as Scout presses his frame against his front, his hand rooting itself in the Australian's thick hair, jerking his head downward violently.

"Watch out dingo," Scout whispers. "I ain't gonna go easy on ya," his insufferably gloating grin catches Sniper's fancy, the man kissing Lawrence's lips hastily before giving him a push toward his base. "I mean it, you won't make it out alive if I see ya!" Scout salutes Sniper in a final goodbye, the steel door slamming behind him. "Ahh," Scout sighs before his form undulates, and in a cloud of smoke ths disguise dissipates, Spy's footsteps echoing in the deserted hall.

"And neither will your precious Scout."


	29. Motives

"Sniper!"

The whispers were faint at first, indistinguishable from the screams and flares of firearms around them; so quiet in fact, the Australian had to wonder whether the Soldier's Hysteria he'd always heard about had finally crept upon him. The man had surprised even himself, how quietly he found he was able to accept his slip into insanity, without so much as even a question or a shrug acknowledging the transition. His eye curls along the scope of his rifle, the sun's glare casting against everything in an eerily lively sheen—it coupled together with the flow of blood, warming it in its appearance, like a sweet, honey brown glaze coating the the marinating bodies of the dead that littered Granary's fields.

If this was what it felt like, madness, well, it certainly didn't feel any different from his times of sanity. Perhaps, then, he never really was sane to begin with.

"_Jack_—!"

Jack lowers the rifle, biting down on his lip—a shift and slight turn to the side and he looks about in an attempt to debunk the whispers and officially crawl into madness' arms.

Though sure enough Scout sits huddled behind a modest pile of oil barrels, the metal, Sniper swears, nearly _baking_ under direct light from the sun, bubbling like thick, steel sludge. "Oi, Lawrence!" Jack guffaws, placing his rifle to his eye—like _Hell_he'd let Scout get a hit on him—one shot from either is all the other needed for a domination, and a tainted duel record.

"Jack, come here!" Lawrence hisses, his face scrunched and his voice short, shorter than his previous calls, and Sniper slings his rifle over his shoulder, slipping from underneath his hideaway of sheetmetal.

_'What in the world is'e doin'?'_ Sniper scoffs; it certainly explained a lot about BLU's inability to maintain or even capture any of the necessary points to seize the region; Scouts were crucial to a successful mission—other classes had been known to commandeer control in the past, though they were rarities—Spies who'd been known to take advantage of seclusion and secure it for their team, or Soldiers who'd been the only ones left alive, valiantly earning a victory with their last breath.

Just what their Scout was doing behind a pile of barrels calling his name instead of his _job_, well, Sniper had no idea. "I swear t'God, mongrel, if this is some trick'o yours t'win the duel, I'll kick your sorry arse back t'Boston, I will! Tell your Mum I say hi—"

But Lawrence grabs onto his front, pulling the man against him, shivering and hiccupping.

"What in the world's gotten into you—?!" Sniper pulls his hands away from Scout's abdomen, fresh blood coating them, trickling sickly in the creases of his hands. "Shit, love!"

"It fuckin' hurts, Jack!"

"What're you doin' callin' for me?! Why won't you call for your doc, love?!"

"He—I dunno where he is!" Scout whines, craning his eyes upward so they meet Jack's. "I tried callin' and he wouldn't answer! I was afraid if I shouted, one of ya would come and—and finish me off!"

"I can't do nothin' for ya, Larry, I don't have medikits just lyin' around!" the man roars as he strips Scout of his shirt, surveying the injury.

"How long you been bleedin'?"

"Argh—I don't fuckin' _know_, does it look like I've been countin'?!"

Sniper rolls his eyes, but holds Scout tenderly nonetheless.

"'S been ten minutes! But Lu! Fuckin' Luc, man he—!" Scout groans, doubling over and clutching his stomach with one hand, the other draped around Sniper's neck for support.

"Luc _what_!" Jack hisses murderously into his ear, wrapping the shirt so it binds itself around Scout's traumatized torso, halting the flow of blood. "He stabbed me, how the fuck else is he gonna kill people?!" Scout snaps, and Sniper sighs, a rush of worry and a thousand thoughts and questions of 'what to do' clutters most of his mind. The impression of Lawrence in his arms is so surreal, as it typically is when he sits injured under his care, the feel of his writhing frame only doing a little to jerk him from his frazzled thoughts.

"Musta wanted to just get me down, hopin' one of ya would finish me off so he wouldn't be blamed for my death—too bad for him it was you who found me!"

"I can't keep doin' this, love," Sniper growls, and Scout nods softly.

"I love ya, but you gotta learn t'either stay outta trouble or call your damn _doctor_—"

"'Scuse me?!"

"This ain't some fantasy, Lawrence, you're not _Rapunzel_, 'nd I ain't gonna keep savin' ya like ya are!"

"You think I do this on purpose like some fuckin' attention whore?! 'Cause I think it's _cute_?! My stepdad tried killin' me, wombat! I ain't tryin' to be no fuckin' princess! You ain't my knight, and I sure as Hell don't want you to be! But damn, you're all I got!"

"The last few times I've saved y'we've been lucky we weren't caught with each other! Even luckier your Doc can keep a secret—if the Administrator just looks at her monitor at the wrong second, or Jane finds y'all curled against me, or Tavish does a doubletake, seein' me holdin' you!"

"Then what?! She'd take your medals away?! Tavish'll _tell_?! Then so what, you'll be discharged?! Are your medals really that much more fuckin' important than keeping me alive?! Is RED's domination of the Armed Forces really fuckin' _worth_ it—?!"

"She'll let ya die for insubordination, treason, defection! I've been tellin' y'this since the beginnin', Larry!" Jack stands up nonetheless, craddling Scout in a secretive embrace, arms positioned so he rests in them comfortably, but is concealed and easily missable to passerby. "If we're seen together, 'nd one o'us 'sn't bleedin' or pissin' on the other's corpse, we're gonna get questioned, accused of disloyalty, 'nd the Administrator has no problem killin' people who ain't workin' t'full capacity!"

"Why does she gotta kill 'em?!"

"We know too much, love, 'bout the world'n how it really works. She's not jus' gonna let us out there as civillians, a discharge wouldn't do her confidentiality any right favours. We part from 'er armies on bad terms 'nd I blab about forbidden stuff on the streets—people'll riot, knowing who it is that _really_ runs the show 'n this place..."

"You sound like a fuckin' conspiracy nutjob!"

"I've seen it happen, Lawrence!"

"You ever see a Scout die?! 'cause I ain't gonna make it much longer if we stop here for chattin'!"

"Killed plenty of'em! But you mean the world t'me, Larry, that goes without sayin', eh? 'Nd I won't let—! Gah, shit—" he ducks behind a few scattered freight cars, and Scout's eyes widen as Jack catches his breath, winded from his sprint across the field.

"You just gonna fuckin' sit here and let me bleed to death!"

But Sniper clamps a hand over his mouth, craning Scout's head to give him a view of the sentry that lies ahead, an Engineer upgrading it calmly.

"I'm gonna let y'go here, love—he's got a dispenser up, he'll take care'o ya 'til your doc comes,"

"Dude, he's so fuckin' far away, I can't just get up and walk over there!"

"'Nd if I run y'to 'im that sentry's gonna swivel around'n _kill_ me!"

"It's level one!"

"Then your Engineer'll be wonderin' why the bloody Hell I've got ya all tight against me, eh?! 'nd we don't want that," Jack reminds him heavily, Lawrence's brow furrowing as the Australian sets him gently so his back rests against the freight car.

"I have t'go, Larry, call for him t'come 'nd carry y'over there! I'll be' good 's gone, standin' around here," Sniper explains with finality, Scout giving him a hurt look.

"What's wrong—?!"

Scout pulls the man against him, catching Sniper very much off guard; it's a weak embrace, the Bostonian absolutely spent from bloodloss, but it doesn't stop Jack from returning the gesture with genuine affection. "Go 'head, call 'im before there's no blood left in ya," he whispers, Scout leaning forward (though not without a slight wince) and kissing him very gently.

"Okay, love," Sniper attempts to finalise it all, but a strange glint rests in Scout's eyes, a cold, distant shine, and it unnerves the Australian as they remain rooted on his own, Scout's hand squeezing his shoulder lightly.

"You're an idiot, Jack," Scout shakes his head, and Sniper scoffs, smirking silently in response; so maybe he _was_; Lawrence truly had drained him of all rationality. This skinny Bostonian had turned him into who _knows_ just what exactly—but he wouldn't trade his 'idiocy' for anything. The older man growls as he feels a tender blade slice it's way along his spine, and an earsplitting groan echoes in an eerie wave as the knife lunges into the flesh of the man's back, dreadful pain taking him over.

Sniper's lidded eyes only catch slight glimpses of Luc's frame. He sits in Scout's former position, his face twisted in delight.

"Truly a lovestruck idiot."

-

"...Dammit! Zhe bleeding will not stop—Jack! _Jack_!"

A hand pats his cheek heavily, jumpstarting the man's groggy conscious. The hand from before is joined by the other, and Sniper can sense their struggle in their attempt to shift him so he sits upward as opposed to sprawled upon the ground. He moans as the pain in his back crescendos with each passing second gained as his self awareness returns, a sticky iron scented liquid that can only be blood seeping through his shirt and vest.

"Bugger me..." Jack grunts, the pain rendering him incapable of opening his eyes just yet. He can feel a warm air against the whole of his face and hair—he must have been stripped of his hat and glasses at some point. It appeared to be some sort of docking room, that he is being held in; it is dark and humid, sunlight trailing in just barely from underneath the steel door. Crates and barrels seem to be neatly organized in the neglected room, and each inhale fills Sniper's lungs with a prickling dust that itches at his throat.

It must be him and his rescuer, he quietly concludes. How in the Hell he got in here, he has no idea.

He listens for the sounds of nearby comrades, though pressure plugs his ears and whether the sounds of war have truly ceased or he is suppressing them, he does not know. In all honesty it matters very little as the man remembers that the crusted blood on his hands is not his own, but rather that of Scout. His heart gives a painful pump of startlement and he can feel the trickle of its blood seep from the stab wound on his middle back along his spine.

"Bloody Hell, Larry!" Sniper calls with a sudden energy that wells within him, the man lifting his head and allowing himself to part his eyelids—

"You fucker!" he roars as they adjust to the lack of light and center onto the masked man before him, Luc's red suit dirtied with the stains of combat. "Where is 'e?!" the Australian snarls, and his legs hobble as he attempts to hoist himself from the ground, the thin Frenchman gasping and taking a step back.

"Do not try to stand, Jack, you will 'urt yourself furzher!"

A hand around his neck however cuts him short, Luc's eyes widening as Sniper's burn ferociously into his own, Sniper's eyes and firm grip the only thing about him not a slave to injury bound weakness.

"I'll kill you if you—you!"

"Jack, please, you do not understand!"

"You stabbed 'im!" Sniper whispers in a fury so silent and yet so stark that Luc eyes the man's other hand, the other hand that curls around the hilt of his machete—

"Jack, Jack!"

"I'll kill y'right here 'nd right now if y'don't tell me what you've done with 'im—I don't care if the old bat takes my head for it—I'll make sure my last kill was _worth it_!"

"Jack, Lawrence—!"

"Y'got one chance t'talk, 'nd it better be the bloody truth," Sniper spits, and in a marvelous wonder of strength he pins Luc to the concrete wall, the edge of his kukri at his neck.

"Y'best start talkin', mate, 'cause my hands're shakin', 'nd I'm not too bothered about 'em slippin'—"

"I 'ave not seen Lawrence zhis entire match! It is what I am trying to tell you!" and Luc gasps as Sniper's blade presses against his flesh, Sniper's forearm supporting him, though it slips erratically as twinges of pain shoot throughout his body. "I don't take kindly t'lies, Luc," Sniper spits, eyes narrowing. "'Nd if you don't start makin' sense, I'll gut your voice out so I won't have t'hear 'em," Sniper threatens, Luc frozen as if making sure to pick his words carefully.

"My memory ain't terrible, mate—I remember y'stabbin' me, disguisin' as Lawrence t'trick me—nd I know you did somethin' to 'im!"

"Jack, listen to yourself, please! Why in zhe world would I stab you and zhen bring you in 'ere?!" Luc pleads, Sniper smiling roguishly.

"I'm waitin' for you t'tell me," he chuckles, Luc's eyes watching the knife that still slices delicately at his throat. "Jack, zhere is an imposter! I 'eard zhe BLUS during zhe battle, Lawrence 'as been missing since yesterday!"

"What&!" Sniper gasps, Luc sighing as the man loosens his deadly position—though just barely. "Zhe Scout you claimed to have seen was only a disguise—as was zhe one claiming to be me afterward!"

"You mean for me t'believe that there's another one o'you dirty spies runnin' around here, disguisin' as you'n Scout—and apparently even _myself_—?!"

"Jack, I would never 'urt 'im—!"

"Certainly not, Luc, not like the way you abused 'im his whole childhood, aye?!" Sniper snaps, and Luc freezes, swallowing slowly.

"I—I would never attempt to kill 'im, Jack, I swear it!"

"Y'jus sayin' that 'cause you know I'll make ya regret it if I find out you've laid even a finger on'im out here—?"

"Zhe Spy who stabbed you, zhough cloaked as myself, was not me, Jack—you know I am a man who prides 'imself in 'is work—such a sloppy stab zhat leaves 'is victim alive is not a sign of my work, but a sign of an incompetent fool! Zhe boy 'as been 'aving problems wizh 'is own team's Spy for quite some time—!" Luc stutters, Sniper's face contorting from confusion.

"He certainly hasn't mentioned any sorts o'problems other than the ones he's had with you!"

"'E would not tell me eizher! I try to ask 'im when I see 'im, but 'e tells me nozhing! It comes as no surprise to me 'e would keep zhem from you, too!"

"Why would he do that?! He knows I'd do anythin' for 'im, that anyone givin 'im shit I'll—I'll—!"

"Lawrence is a prideful boy, any problem of 'is is 'is problem alone! 'e's been zhis way 'is whole life! If 'e were to tell you, it would be like asking for 'elp—Lawrence would razher die zhan ask for anyone's 'elp!"

"Obviously!"

"Especially from you, 'e constantly feels 'e 'as somezhing to prove! In all my years of knowing 'im, you are zhe only one who 'as ever _gotten_ to 'im!"

"This pride o'his is gettin' 'im bloody killed!" Sniper roars, his lips pursed tightly, and Luc can see anxiety swallowing him whole. "He's not invincible, he needs t'quit actin' like he is—! 'Nd bein' a Scout doesn't help that he's bein' aimed at first out here—!"

"I know zhis, Jack, I know!" Luc sighs, and all he can do is watch as Sniper brings his face into his hands, the man sitting his silent contemplation.

"I warned Scout not to provoke zhis man—zhat I know him well—naturally I 'ave done my share of reconnaissance upon 'im—'e is a cunning man, one zhat does not accept zhe concept of rejection so easily—in any situation!"

"What're you sayin'?!"

"Lawrence must 'ave done somezhing to provoke 'im—'nd whatever zhe Spy wants, 'e is not giving 'im!"

"Oi, ya don't think!?"

"I do not know what 'e wants from Lawrence, Jack, I told you 'e would not confide in me! But I do know Lawrence 'as been more and more afraid of zhis man in zhe recent weeks, and for good reason! 'e 'as been gone since yesterday, and to me it seems zhat it is no coincidence zhat impersonations of 'im and zhose closest to 'im 'ave been popping up!"

Sniper nods, groaning as he falls into a more accommodating position to settle his back.

"BLU's Spy is trying to break Lawrence down zhe way any Spy would—by manipulating 'im through ozhers, by impersonating 'im and zhose 'e loves—'ow sure can Scout be zhat we are not imposters?! Zhe same way you could be now! Or even myself! Where will 'e turn if 'e 'as no one to trust? And 'ow are we supposed to reach 'im if we too do not know who to believe?!"

"Sick stuff, Frenchie—but who're you, carin' all of a sudden—?! After everythin' you've done t'him!"

"I regret it every day, Jack! But neizher of you understand zhat I never meant to ruin 'is childhood! I do not claim innocence as I said! And of course to young Lawrence who only saw 'is Fazher as being zhat—a fazher, of course I look like zhe Devil 'imself when he'd finally had enough 'is mozher and I eloping whilst 'is fazher abused 'er until 'is eventual departure from 'is life completely! And zhat I lived wizh zhem unmasked, I 'ad to conceal many details about my occupation, bozh for zheir safety and my own! I will not stand 'ere and pretend to 'ave treated Lawrence zhe way I should 'ave, but please, do not forget zhat you see it all zhrough zhe point of view of 'is lover, boyfriend, whatever zhe 'Ell you two call yourselves,"

Sniper grunts and nods just slightly.

"I regret it everyday, Jack—I love 'is mozher and 'er sons very much—and I swear it to you I will not let anyzhing 'appen to Lawrence!"

"I'm afraid we're too late for that, Luc," Sniper shakes his head.

"'E is not dead—Ze Administrator is notified of every deazh—no matter its cause—she keeps very close tabs on 'er mercenaries; if zhey leave zhe Fort wizhout predesignated approval, she knows it. Even Spies cannot travel wizhout escaping 'er scrutinous eyes. Besides -it vould not be like ze BLU Spy to kill 'im before first getting zhat what 'e wants! Which, I zhink, is,"

"I don't give a shit about anythin' but Scout, Luc—I don't give a damn about any details or motives or why—all I know is I better find Lawrence—or—"

"What do you propose we do1;?!"

"We find'im, Luc, 'nd I won't rest until I do—I don't care about missions, or who's watchin' me—discharges—bugger it all—I'm findin' 'im,"

"A most reckless approach,"

"_You_ can piss around'nd go invisible 'nd wait for the clear in your bloody corners all you want—I'm goin' in that base, 'nd I want answers—"

"You won't find Scout _dead_, Jack, and if you storm zheir base you will be killed immediately! A little bit of caution is necessary if you want you or Lawrence to come out of zhis alive! And I can assure you Lawrence would be most devastated if you were to die saving 'im!"

"I think he'd die just 'cause 'e needs t'be _saved_,"

"'E is not locked away in some dungeon—I can be sure of zhis—it is not so much zhat 'e needs saving, 'e is missing..."

"You're not makin' sense, mate—"

"Finding 'im will not be zhe issue—'e is still wizhin zhe perimeters of 2Fort - ozherwise ze Administrator would 'ave been notified, and zhe entire base would be on lockdown until 'e was found. No, it is resolving zhis whole conflict wizhout inciting zhe attention of zhe Administrator zhat will prove to be zhe problem," Luc explains.

"It will mean deazh for you bozh, if she knows you two are in love,"

"Figured the punishment would be somethin' like that—but I sure as Hell ain't the only one who's gotta watch out, you're his bloody _stepdad_!"

"Ze Administrator 'as acknowledged zhis fact in zhe past—you do not want to stand before 'er, she is a devastating woman—as long as she knows zhat we bozh harbour a hatred for each ozher, she is not so peeved—zhe hatred is to 'er what motivates us bozh—'ow we know each ozher does nor worry 'er in zhis case—and it is part of zhe reason why I cannot mend anyzhing wizh Lawrence now, because it would risk our lives! It is no longer a game,"

"'Nd it never was—!"

"You understand zhat if she gains more control, zhe world will be 'ers unchecked—!"

"It already is, Luc; she's got control over both heads o'RED'n BLU, over both factions—'nd those factions already got the world under their thumbs—all it would take is a revolt from us 'nd her whole empire'd be overturned! Why else d'you think she has us fightin'?! If we were t'ever stop for even a second, what would be distractin' us from her! It's not worth the piss or blood who captures a fuckin' _point_—distractions, Luc—'nd anythin' that serves as a distraction from our missions is eliminated—'nd I'd say Scout is a _distraction_, alright—even worse for me, since Scouts are the ones capturin' out here t'begin with!"

"'E never should 'ave gotten involved in any of zhis!"

"He told me why—why he enlisted," Sniper mentions carefully.

"Zhen you will understand why I fear I 'ave driven zhe boy to is deazh," Luc chokes, shaking his head and furrowing his brow.

"If 'is mozher 'ad any idea 'ow much danger 'er son was in right now, in zhis very moment! 'E would not 'ave enlisted if—I 'ad not provoked 'im to hurt me as 'e did,"

"I could kill ya for what you did to 'im," Sniper growls, Luc expelling a single unamused chuckle.

"I know it; I see it in your eyes,"

"Yet if you hadn't been such a prick, I never woulda met 'im, y'know,"

"I could sense zhat 'e regretted 'is deployment in 'is first few monzhs, zhat 'e 'ad realised signing a contract wizh BLU meant more zhan firing shots and leaving it all wizh a clean record—zhough I believe your friendship wizh 'im 'as eased 'im—"

"Don't let 'im hear ya spewing that gushy shit,"

"Of course not,"

"I can't believe the little bugger— he's been havin' these problems 'nd never said a word—I'll kill'im when we find 'im,"

"You are confident zhat we will?"

"You're the one who said we would, Luc! And I need t'find him now!"

"I 'ave sensed your restlessness—but you are correct, we must find Lawrence first—let me call our doctor to patch your back,"

"'s the battle over?!"

"Zhere wasn't much of a fight to begin wizh, what wizh Lawrence unable to capture any areas for zhe BLUs—Zhey did not stand a chance," Luc mumbles, adjusting and prodding the watch around his wrist.

"Relax, Jack—zhe Medic is on 'is way—we will find 'im—I swear it."


	30. Lies and Imputations

One would have to look closely to see Sniper's wrist moving at all. The soft scratching of the toothbrush's bristles against the bolt action rifle is the only indicator of the man's physical presence. Jack's teeth are clenched so tightly, his jaw threatens to crack through his neck, his eyes lidded, tense and narrow. He knew himself to be a patient man; a man ready to wait for the sake of success, though it becomes harder to do so.

What was a Sniper without an ability to dote patiently, to tarry upon his prey? Yet Scout wasn't prey, a hit, or a target; he transcended beyond a means to an end for the Australian. Contradicting the whole of his nature, Jack slams his rifle against the table, running his hands through his hair in an exhausted sweep. The van returns its owner's frustration with an echo of his snarl and drop of his neglected firearm, the vehicle perturbed in its own right that the man interrupted the silence of the air so suddenly.

'_It shouldn't take two fuckin' hours t'find 'im, Luc..._' Sniper's growls from restlessness. Even in his anxious state, the Australian still maintains an eerie composure of his frame. Snipers were typically precise and patient; it was part of the profession.

'_Be patient._'

Yet patience and complacency, the role of the sitting hen, did not guarantee Lawrence's safety.

'_'Nd if that wasn't really Luc? What if that was that bloody BLU Spy, pretendin' t'be Luc, 'nd sayin' he'd go find Larry that way I'd stay back here 'nd not go lookin' m'self? Nah - the BLU Spy wouldn't have a reason t'search for Scout if he already knows where he is..._'

And Jack sighs, shaking away his paranoid thoughts against Luc.

'_Maybe I shoulda went with him..._'

Sniper lifts his gaze from the coffee table, noiselessly dropping the blackened rag he'd used to clean his rifle against it. Taking the aforementioned gun into his grip, a thousand possibilities burn in his mind's eye a thousand in one images—images that, despite their delusional distortions and misconstrued perceptions, congeal the flow of Sniper's blood and depress his sense of reality, replacing it instead with fanatic images of Lawrence's demise.

What if he were trapped away somewhere? What if he was being tortured? Beaten? Mutilated, raped, burned, scarred—it didn't matter what—but rather that Sniper didn't _know_ what.

Lawrence was a tough young man. Jack knew this and was far from the man to deny it. The fiesty Bostonian he'd come to fall in love with had not earned his iron thick reputation by being a brittle little boy. Resilient, persevering, and packing a unexpectedly heavy punch, he was no damsel. Regardless of his fast tongue and sure about demeanour, he certainly could not be described as _invincible_.

'...The bloody—?!' Jack grumbles as a short knock raps against the camper door, eying it for a few contemplative seconds before springing from the armchair.

'_...'S'bout time Luc came back!_'

The closer Jack comes the door, the louder blood floods his ears with ecstatic pounds. Opening it quickly, his expression drops at the sight of the man who was not Luc at all.

"Herr—Herr Sniper, I—Ah! No! Calm down—!" Heinrich steps backwards, the German wailing as Jack picks up and aims his weapon at his person, absolutely fuming.

"Please, Herr Sniper, lover your veapon! I svear I mean no harm—!"

"OI, Y'IN ON IT _TOO_, DOC?! Y'KNOW WHERE LARRY IS?! Y'COME T'SADDLE ME ON UP T'THE SLAUGHTER TOO, MATE?!" Sniper warns the whimpering Medic, whose bottom lip trembles under a heavy gasp.

"Jack, _please_, get a _hold_ of yourself!"

"Right, 'nd what else 'm I s'pposed t'do, with _Lawrence_ missin' 'nd a BLU at my front door?! 'M I jus' meant t'let y'waltz right in?!"

"For God's _Sake_, Jack, it is _because_ of Lawrence zat I am here!" Heinrich bellows, eyes still narrowed cautiously on the barrel of the man's gun, his brow no less wrinkled with disgust.

"Look at you, you're gettin' all crosseyed..." Sniper taunts, Heinrich's eyes darting watchfully upon the slightly blackened rifling of the firearm.

"Ve do not have time for zis, Herr Sniper...!" Heinrich hisses, brushing past the man and into his van from urgency. His eyes are quick to meet the Australian's, filled with silent resolution and understanding. Heinrich can see the dregs of Sniper's torn up conscious within the man's grey ones, his porous skin cracked and unkempt from hours of stress and worry.

"Right 'nd how do I know you're not really a piece o'shit Spy, eh?! Lettin' the bloody beast into me own van... "

"Ach, for God's sake—a year ago, you vere viz Scout—in ze Medibay—you—he vas hurt, and you—you zreatened to kill me if I did not save him! Now is not ze time to ask for silly passvords and memory checks—! Not if you vant Scout—!"

"What about Lawrence?" Jack interrupts quietly, shotgun lowered at his side. "Y'know where Scout is?!" he chokes. "Heinrich -"

"I vant to help you find Lawrence - I heard zat you vere disturbed by his disappearance as vell. You see, our comrades-"

"With all due respect, I dont give two shits 'bout much other than findin' him," Sniper snaps simply, Heinrich raising his eyebrows indignantly. "I see you have not changed in aggression since ze last time ve met, Herr Sniper,"

"Circumstances haven't changed much, Doc, Maybe we should quit crossin' paths when Lawrence is dyin' or AWOL or whatever the Hell else," Jack mumbles jokingly from the corner of his mouth as he lights a cigarette indignantly. Heinrich wrinkles his nose as the smoke billows its way about the camper's sitting room, choking the breath of the Australian's unexpected guest.

"Jack, ze Scout has been missing since Tuesday,"

"Aye, I know it. Was with 'im Tuesday night, or at least I thought I was. Turns out it was Spy pretendin' t'be him. 'Nd yesterday, at that Granary, the same one tricked me again. Tried killin' me, actually! I reckon I haven't seen the real Lawrence 'n about a week, 's been nothin' but Spies pretendin' t'be him,"

"Ach, du Scheisse..."

"'Nd if it weren't for Luc gettin' me off the field before I could get finished off, I wouldn't be much help searchin',"

"Finished off?"

"Aye, mate. The same Spy's been disguisin' as Lawrence seems t'want me out o'the picture 'lright. Bloke tried doin' me in at Granary. He was one o'you lot, too. Bet the mongrel's related t'Larry's disappearance, I jus' know it..."

"Vat? Zat, zat's nonsense! Vy vould he have anyzing to do vizh Larry missing?" Heinrich quesions gravely, shifting in the armchair.

"Beats me, Doc!" Jack snaps in mock cheeriness, flicking ash from his cigarette before pincering it in between the corners of his lips. "All I know for sure is that my boyfriend's vanished without a piece o'shit t'go off, 'nd your BLU Spy seems t'want me t'not notice 'nd dead, respectively. Doesn't help his case that his stepdad seems t'think that Scout's problems with'im could be tied your lot's Spy shapeshiftin' 'nd abductin'. Larry. He musta pissed 'im off or somethin', like Larry's good at doin', 'nd your Spy's not takin' it so lightly..."

"How strange, Scout alvays comes to me viz his problems! Ve talk so much, and he hasn't said anyzing about trouble viz Dmitri,"

"Dmitri's 'is name—?!"

"Yes—Scout certainly vould have mentioned him if somezing vere wrong; he enjoys complaining—zough he has been a bit more anxious and less talkative in the last veek—but again, I know nozing! And on top of zat I simply cannot comprehend vy he vould vant to hurt his own comrade? Are you certain zat you and Luc know Scout's disappearance can be traced to him?!"

"'Course I'm not, Doc, but I'm also not gonna sit around playin' sleuth. I ain't got a problem pointin' fingers, 'nd waitin' t'clear up which direction I oughta be pointin' in, 'til I got Larry with me. I'm gonna find 'im myself,"

"Zat is not necessary Jack, for I believe I may have found him,"

"WHY DIDN'T Y'BLOODY SAY SO?!" Sniper bellows, Heinrich flinching just slightly at the volume of his voice.

"Because, I - I cannot be _sure_!"

"What's goin' on, Doc?!" Jack asks through gritted teeth.

"Luc is viz him in our base now. He figured he should stay, because if anyone can coax a Spy out of a disguise, it is anozer Spy—he seems to also be convinced it is Dmitri's doing zat Scout is missing,"

"Oi, 's 'cause it's the only theory that makes sense..."

"'Nd zat as his stepfazer, Luc knows everyzing about him. He could tell us better zan anyone vezer or not zis Scout is an imposter,"

"True," Sniper grunts, grabbing his hat from the coffee table and placing it atop his head. "Enough with the chit chat—where is he'nd let's go,"

"In ze Medibay, but is a given zat Luc vas able to sneak into our base wizout issue. You are not a Spy, however, so please stay close to me!"

"Fine, jus' get me to'im, please!" Sniper pleads, and Heinrich nods. The two waste no more time, sprinting in the direction of the base.

-

"Oi, this looks familiar," Sniper mumbles darkly as he stands before the Medibay in BLU's basement.

"As it should—it was here you brought Scout in ze past,"

Sniper jumps as the steel door opens, the Frenchman poking his head through, absolutely fatigued.

"Jack!"

"What did you find out?! 's it really him?!" Sniper rises instantly, Luc backing up slightly as the man nearly mows him down in his excitement.

"Zhat—zhat—I am not sure—"

"How can you not be sure, 's Larry or not?!"

"Ve found him here, in ze basement near ze intel, razher...off, Heinrich's voice shakes as his eyes dart nervously across Sniper's stony face. "At zis point ve cannot be sure of anyzing. He seemed just a little confused, but he absolutely refused to speak to us,"

"_'We'_ who—?!"

"Vell—I found 'im," Luc sighs, as if this fact drained him of all energy.

"Does anyone know y'got him?"

"No—I—Luc told me not to alert anyone ven he saw me viz ze Scout,"

"I zhought it would be best to 'old an interrogation witzhout interruption from or zhe influence of 'is comrades. I 'ad 'Einrich keep Lawrence in zhe basement until we 'ave reached a conclusion to zhis nonsense,"

"Oi, makes sense, but why in the world won't 'e talk to you?"

"I tried asking him vere he has been, but he vould not respond,he said it vas none of my business and to let him leave ze bay,"

"When Lawrence refused to cooperate I decided it would be best to let me talk to 'im while zhe Doctor went to retrieve you. When 'e saw me, it goes wizhout saying Lawrence was 'ighly displeased. I 'ad to restrain 'im, 'e kept attempting to punch me,"

"Restrain 'im? Doesn't sound too pleasant..."

"And of course 'e would not say a word when I asked 'im where 'e's been and what it is 'e's avoiding, _why_ Spies are trying to kill us, and why zhey are disguising zhemselves as 'im,"

"Then let me talk t'him," Sniper nods.

"Are you sure it is a good idea? He does not seem fit for interrogations. He almost appears to have been drugged, zough I have not had ze time to administer any tests," Heinrich whispers.

"Look mate, I'm goin' in there'n talkin' t'him no matter what, so quit with these stupid questions 'nd let me deal with him, 'lright?! He trusts me, _loves_ me, 'nd I reckon I might be the only one who can make any sort o'progress on this shit with 'im at the moment," Sniper spits, Luc leaning to whisper in Heinrich's ear.

"'E's quite passionate about zhe safety of your comrade, Doctor,"

"Y'don't mind waitin' here, do y'Doc?" Jack asks the German respectfully, who allows Jack to slip through the Medibay's door without another word.

-

The lights are still impossibly bright as the day he had rushed Scout to the bowels of his base. The same immaculate white swells the sanitarium, void of either warmth or cold.

The same smell of sterilization and latex, Sniper notes, is as heavy and perfumy as it was before as well. He catches a glimpse of Scout, who sits tied up against a hardwood chair in the middle of the room. And as his mind flashes memories of the day he had found Lawrence in the sewers, Sniper realizes he would give anything to deal with a brutally injured Scout than someone who may not even be the young man at all.

"Jack!" Lawrence calls worriedly as he lifts his head, eyes blinking rapidly as he looks Sniper's frame up and down.

"Hey, love," Jack whispers calmly, falling gently to his knees in front of the young man, so as to better make eye contact with him. No dirt on his skin, clothes untorn— brown hair in order, blue eyes of regular size—no bruises, or signs of swelling...

Jack sighs a rigid, relieved sigh, Lawrence sitting before him seemingly untouched despite the mystery of their circumstances. His sigh staggers into a quiet, breathy laugh of disbelief, and Sniper rests a hand against the palm of Scout's cheek, the young man smiling into the Australian's gesture. Both men seemingly at peace at the very real touch of the other, they allow a quiet minute of affectionate registration of the other to pass before looking directly into each others's eyes.

"What in the bloody Hell's goin' on, Larry?"

He felt rather guilty over his choice of words. An _I love you_ would have been much more appropriate, Sniper rationalizes. That he can talk to Scout at all, that he was not murdered in his absence, is a miracle in itself. Scout swallows, saying nothing.

"I've been hysterical the last two days, love!" Sniper explains, Scout puckering his lips subtlely, silently requesting a kiss—

Jack complies, but quickly.

"Where'n the Hell have you been?! What's this _Dmitri_ been doin' t'you?! What the Hell did y'do t'get him so riled up like this?! 'S this what you meant, when y'said you—when—two weeks ago, when I had that cold, 'nd you were worried it wasn't me who ya—ya—?"

Sniper scratches behind his neck.

"...buggered?"

It's obvious due to Scout's twitching lips and strained face that he means to respond. Shaking his head, he says nothing, however.

"C'mon, sweetie, if y'don't tell me what's goin' on, I can't help you!"

"Are you ok, Jack?" Lawrence asks quietly, the utterance of the question draining him of any healthy flush.

"Oh I'm _fine_, Larry. Confused, worried _sick_ over you, _sure_, with a BLU Spy out for my head. But you're here, I'm here with ya; I'm _fine_..."

"Jack..." Scout begins, shaking his head, eyes overwhelmed and wide.

"Yeah..."

The Australian doesn't even feel his hands rush to untie the rope bind the young man to the chair. Unraveling and falling to the floor with a light thump, Jack is nearly sent to the floor as Scout flings his raw, rope burned arms around Sniper, burying his face into his neck.

"I've been so worried, love..." Jack mumbles. "Terrified y'ed been killed..."

"No, you ain't gotta worry. I can handle myself, Jack," Lawrence mumbles, as if afraid that speaking in a louder tone would further cause more questions to spew from the tense Australian.

"Y'can?! Y'sure, love?! 'Cause, I mean...I'm havin' a hard time believin' it! D'you mean t'handle it by disappearin' for days on end'nd then showin' up again nearly out of your mind in a basement?!"

"I—was tired, Jack—I've just been tired these last two days, and—I was sleep walkin'—"

"You mean t'tell me," Sniper begins in a mockingly light tone, stripping himself of his glasses and folding them patiently.

"That you've been asleep the last two days, 'nd that you're just now gettin' up from this slumber o'yours?"

Scout reddens, chewing on his lips. He brings his expressionless gaze to Sniper's however, giving the man a distinct nod.

"Really?" Sniper cocks an eyebrow, his forehead furrowed from insulted disbelief.

"I'm pretty sure your team would'a looked in your room before classifyin' ya as missin' for one, mate, 'nd I'm more than sure you would'a been woken up from yesterday's battle had y'really been there," Sniper explains slowly, and Scout shifts in his chair, looking anywhere but at Sniper's critical stare.

"What's goin' on, Lawrence!" Jack snarls. "_What are y'hidin' from me_?!"

"Nothin'..."

"Don't you lie t'me, Larry. Don't y'dare sit here, tellin' me you were sleep walkin', not when I've actually been _here_, worried sick over you, unable t'sleep, thinkin' you were dead! Don't tell me this is nothin' when that Spy tried killin' me, love! 'Nd he almost did! 'Nd obviously he has it out for you too! I don't have time for you t'lie t'me like this! Not when it's our we've got t'worry about!"

"Why can't you ever just trust me, Jack?!"

"You're bein' _kidknapped_, Lawrence! Drop the act, love! This fuckin' Dmitri bloke is over here tryin' t'kill me, 'nd you're pissy 'cause I maybe want t'know what the fuck 's goin' on?!"

"Who said he was involved in any of this?!"

"'Lright, _fine_. Who else is gonna backstab 'nd shapeshift into _you_ around here?!"

"Try Luc, the one who's been makin' my life Hell for as long as I remember!"

"For God's sake, Lawrence, your stepfather is not tryin' t'do you or me in! I understand he was wrong, that he was terrible t'you growin' up, but you need t'get over it'n recognize this threat for what it really is before y'end up missin' for good—!"

"Gow in the Hell can you just expect me to get over gettin' abused, Jack?! How 'bout you just _get over_ havin' a dad who's fuckin' disgusted with you! See how that works out!"

"Listen here, posie, this is gettin' real bloody silly real bloody fast, Larry, 'nd I can't believe you think I'm stupid enough t'fall for sleepwalkin', that y'don't think I don't deserve t'know the truth!"

"What fuckin' _truth_, Jack?!"

"That this Spy is dangerous, 'nd out t'do some serious harm t'you, for whatever reason! 's why I'm beggin' you t'please, please, Lawrence—put whatever the Hell prideful shit it is that's stoppin' ya from explainin' what's goin' on 'nd just _tell_ me what it is he wants from you, 'nd why the Hell he's goin' through all these lengths t'get it!"

"Maybe it's not none of your fuckin' business in the first place!" Scout spits, and the two share a silent, heated glare.

"Maybe I can handle this without you, maybe it ain't your problem! You can tell Luc'n Heinrich'n whoever the fuck else to quit gettin' mixed up in shit they ain't got nothin' to do with anyway! This is my business, my problem, I'm takin' care of it!"

"I think it becomes my bloody problem too when whatever it is you're doin' is makin' this bloody tosser wanna kill me! 'Nd y'better bloody _believe_ 's my problem when you're in danger!"

"Dude, forget Dmitri, forget any of this, 'cause no one asked for your fuckin' ass to dip into any of this!" Lawrence roars, eyes rooted on Jack's, though he shudders slightly, for the Australian's eyes are cold and murderous.

"I didn't ask t'get involved, Lawrence, but I'm pretty sure gettin' a knife t'the back might drag me into your little conflict!"

"Well then solve it for yourself then, quit tryin' to figure out where I've been! I can deal with my own problems, so you deal with yours! I didn't ask for no fuckin' hero—" but Scout is cut short as Sniper pulls his fist back, though he drops it at the last second. His quiet anger does not subside regardless. The two stare each other down quietly, Jack rising to his feet, chest heaving.

"'S that how it is?!" Sniper roars, and Scout wails as Sniper grabs onto his shirt, the fabric of his shirt cutting into his collarbone. "Then here's a new little problem for you t'deal with, y'little shit!" Sniper snarls, tossing the young man to the floor. "I'm done. Solve your issue yourself. Keep your lies t'yerself, mate. The bloke can leave y'gutted in a bloody ditch for all I care, Lawrence! Good luck takin' care o'this on your own, mate!"

"Jack, no - _Jack, wait_, please!"

Sniper shows no signs of hearing Scout. He instead continues toward the steel door in a livid stalk, leaving the medibay without another word, thought, or look back.


	31. The Assassination

"I'm not sayin' nothin', Luc; well, 's not exactly true—I _will_ say the little fucker prolly deserves everythin' he's got comin',"

"Zhat still does not change what 'as 'appened and zhat 'e is still in danger, Jack,"

Luc's expression remains the same in its stern, silent glare of disapproval. Sniper, who sits on the edge of his mattress, wrists placed in lazy exhaustion on his knees, can only sigh as the quiet between them prolongs itself the longer he mentally stews on a validating response.

"Well maybe you both need t'quit doin' shit you're just gonna end up regrettin' later—if Scout hadn't mouthed off I'd still be there," Jack snarls, and Luc, whose eyes find themselves landing anywhere but the Australian, watches instead the way Sniper's dirtied fingertips play with the lit cigarette the Frenchman had spared him a few minutes before.

"It's funny you should find it appropriate to lecture me about my apparent anger issues and 'ow I should best contain zhem, Jack," Luc begins, refusing to falter in his stance as Sniper lifts his head to shoot Luc an aggressive glare, daring him to utter a word that doesn't quite capture his fancy.

"I didn't exactly go in there with the intention of rippin' Larry a new one," Sniper chuckles, crushing the butt in an ashtray on his bedside table, dropping the dregs of his finished cigarette into it shortly thereafter.

"And you say you love 'im,"

"I ain't ever say I didn't love the mutant. I love him t'death, mate. T'Hell 'nd back, even. But he's grown, 'nd y'can stuff it if y'think I'm gonna chase after 'im if 'es gonna insult me 'nd not cooperate,"

Luc shakes his head, but still allows the man to finish his thought.

"You should not 'ave abandoned 'im,"

"Oi, I ain't hittin' kids, Luc, Lawrence is a grown man, 'nd if he wants t'risk crossin' me like that, then he better bloody well be prepared for whatever else I left 'im t'deal with,"

"What did 'e say to anger you so?"

"I mean, I go in there, Lawrence's dazed out his bloody' mind, my back is all bandaged up 'cause o'this tosser that can't seem t'leave either of us alone for whatever reason—'nd he has the nerve t'say it ain't none o'my bloody business!"

"Lawrence has a mouzh on 'im zhat will drive any man to such lengzhs, I will admit, but it was still a reckless idea to take out your frustration zhat way—you are zhe only one Scout truly trusts!"

"Apparently not, bugger wouldn't tell me why this bloke seems t'want us dead! Won't even give me that courtesy, eh!"

"And if anyone 'ad a chance at getting 'im to talk it was you. Nor do you not seem bozhered zhat zhe Doctor finds Scout's contidition worzhy of furzher analysis—psychoanalysis, no less,"

"Why in the world should I be bothered?! _He kayun hayundul himself_," Jack spits in a mocking Bostonian accent. "He's a Force a Nature, ain't 'e?! I'm tired o'dealin' with his bloody issues,"

"Jack, you know very well Lawrence cannot handle whatever it is Dmitri is doing to 'im zhat is making 'im 'ysterical! And by arguing and fighting wizh 'im you are putting distance between yourselves, and it would not shock me if Dmitri were to use zhis to 'is advantage!"

"Pfft, you're not makin' sense,"

"It would _only_ make sense zhat Dmitri would make use of zhe convenience zhat zhe most menacing and protective of Lawrence's friends _also_ now conveniently wants to bash zhe kid's 'ead in,"

"So then what d'you want me t'do, mate?! Go down there'n kiss his boo boos, apologisin' for a beatin' 'e's deserved since I first met the motherfucker, 'nd listen t'him go on 'bout how he doesn't need me'nd I treat'im like a kid?!"

"No," Luc sighs in patient frustration, the man's frame still propped in a relaxed lean against the wall. "Despite what it is 'e says, does, or means to say, or means to do, you are to look out for 'im and keep 'im safe at all costs, do you 'ear me?"

"You tellin' me what t'do, mate—?!"

"For God's sake, Jack, zhis 'as nozhing to do wizh you, or your pride, or you lack of ability to 'andle your own problems! You understand zhe frustration be'ind dealing wizh people of Lawrence's temperament, and as of now you are acting no different! Now is not zhe time to make Lawrence regret 'is words, Jack! If you lose sight of 'im I fear 'e will not make it out of zhis alive!"

"A little dramatic, eh?"

"If you do not see zhis zhreat and zhe danger in leaving Scout to deal wizh zhis 'imself for what it is, zhen you are no different zhan 'im and also deserve a bloodied nose and a sanity check," Luc snaps, and Jack says nothing in response.

"Lawrence is be'aving in a nature most like 'imself, Jack—being older zhan 'im you should be able to pick and choose your battles, and you are a fool if you zhink now is an appropriate time to engage 'im—'e's an insufferable little shit, and 'e 'as been my whole fifteen years of knowing 'im, zhough I know much better zhan to abandon 'im when 'e needs me most, whezher 'e believes 'e does or not—as should you," Luc's narrowed eyes bore into Sniper's, the Australian however externally firm in his stony anger.

"I 'ave 'ad to deal with more zhan Lawrence's words, but also his own physical wrazh, zhough I'll be damned if I'll let anyone lay a finger on 'im! Zhe boy still 'its me anytime I come close to 'im, or if I attempt to speak wizh 'im, 'e does not listen—but despite it all, Jack, I always watch out for 'im during battle—"

"You tryin' t'say I don't?! How many bloody times have I saved Larry's arse again?!" Sniper snaps, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand.

"Zhen you understand zhe importance of keeping 'im safe now, in zhis instance—I don't care if you get on your knees and lick in between 'is toes, 'nd frankly it concerns me very little if zhe two of you ever speak again—just do not forget zhat you love 'im, zhat 'he loves you, and zhat 'e needs you more zhan 'e needs anyone else,"

"Yeah, yeah..."

"So act your age and keep 'im safe, Jack," Luc grumbles, resting a hand on the man's shoulder. "Not zhat Scout's be'aviour was at all acceptable—but do not forget what it is zhat is important, 'ere—I guarantee you it's not eizher of your egos,"

"Whatever,"

"I am also very surprised you would let yourself be so bozhered by 'im so easily—did you not stop to zhink zhat zhe Scout who angered you so could actually be an imposter?" Jack inquires curiously, awaiting the man's response.

"'Course I did, mate—but it was 'im, I know it,"

"'Ow can you be so sure?"

"If Lawrence had accepted my help, broke down in tears beggin' for me t'chase away the spooks, I would'a known right away we were dealin' with a fake—nah, that dickish Lawrence was my Larry, I got no doubts there,"

"And 'ow do you know it wasn't Dmitri simply playing off zhis fact? It is not 'ard to play a part—"

"Doesn't mean you can play it well," Sniper grumbles, rolling his eyes. "You know better than I do, the little mutant's got an air about'im no one else can exactly fake,'nd besides, I saw it in 'is eyes—that was him,"

"Jack, zhat sounds ridiculous!"

"No, I'm serious! The Scout who tried killin' me at Granary had green eyes—I noticed'em before it was too late, but the one from yesterday, no, his eyes were as blue as Lawrence's always are..."

"In all of my years of service to RED as a man of espionage, I must admit I'd never known to check zhe eyes,"

"Well I imagine anyone in the past who's gotten close enough to a Spy t'notice somethin' like that didn't live t'warn the others. Jus' so happens Dmitri doesn't quite understand how an efficient backstab works,"

"Truly valuable information, Jack. I can only hope zhat Dmitri is unaware of zhis flaw,"

"I'd reckon he is, mate," Sniper mumbles inattentively, grabbing his vest from his mess of comforters upon his mattress, the Frenchman looking at him curiously.

"You are going somewhere, I take it?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna give Larry a visit,"

Sniper grabs his hat, placing it neatly atop his head.

"Heinrich may not let you in zhe bay—eizher 'e will not permit you entry or 'e will be worried you want to 'arm Lawrence furzher—"

"Hmm," Sniper concedes, his brow furrowing as he considers his colleague's words. "Still worth a shot."

-

"I am afraid I can't allow you in, Herr Sniper, no matter the nature of your intentions," Heinrich sighs tiredly to the man who gapes before him. "Now I vill not allow myself to be distracted by you any longer—"

"Oi, Doc, why in the world d'you smell like Formaldehyde?" Jack yelps, taking Heinrich's wrist into his hand and taking in a sharp whiff.

"I vould not suggest inhaling such chemicals!"

"You're not lettin' me in 'cause Scout's dead, right?!" Sniper snarls, Heinrich jerking his wrist back and patting his overcoat flat.

"Do not touch zhe gloves, I must keep zhem clean for my patients—!"

"Why in the Hell d'you smell like dead people, Doc&?!" Jack asks again flatly, glaring humourlessly at the German.

"I can assure you your Scout is in no way related to any scents I have on my person,"

"Alright, next question then—why won't you let me see Larry?!"

"Pardon if I come across as razher brash, Jack, but you must understand zhat ensuring zhe safety of my patient beziehungsweise my comrade, my friend, is my utmost priority!"

"'Scuse you, but I'm pretty sure you'n me both have our priorities lined up 'bout the same, mate—I mean, the one you're talkin' 'bout I just so happen t'be buggerin'—funny how that works out—"

"Your relation to him is zoroughly irrelevant—as is your sexual history—particularly ven Scout's hospitalization is stress related, he could hardly use anymore caused by you,"

"Oi, y'mean you're sleepin' nice'n easy knowin' one o'your own has it out for Scout, but I rough'im up after he gives me sass 'nd you're actin' like I wanna go in your precious little bay'nd pillage it'n steal your virgins,"

"You are not funny in ze slightest, Jack," Heinrich scoffs, looking the man up and down.

"Burn it to the ground—"

"I am not letting you in, Jack. You have not earned zat right,"

"'S not what it sounds like to me—"

"Zen perhaps you are not hearing me correctly," Heinrich snaps with raised eyebrows and lidded eyes, giving the man a condescending glare above his glasses.

"I don't care who you are, or vat your intentions behind your visit may be, it would be most irresponsible and foolish on my part to allow someone of your character—who has been aggressively inclined anytime I have personally interacted viz him—to visit his victim in a time ven rest is crucial to his condition should you vant him to recover quickly—"

"Are y'gonna let me see the mongrel or not, Doc—?!" Sniper sighs from weary finality, and Heinrich releases a huff of resignation through his clenched teeth.

"If you attempt to furzher hurt him in any vay..."

"I swear I won't—'s long as the kid keeps his mouth shut,"

"I mean it, Jack!"

"I do too!"

Sniper grins devilishly at the exasperated man before him, giving the man a second to protest his motion toward the door before heading towards it outright.

"Make it quick, ze boy vill certainly need his rest,"

"'E's not this fragile little squirrel, mate,"

"If ze Scout does not vant to see you, I can only ask zat you heed his request and leave him in peace,"

"No, I'm gonna punch the little bugger in the head 'til he lets me stay," Jack rolls his eyes, though Heinrich appears to be less than amused by the man's comment. "Was a joke, Good Lord, you Germans—you people ever laugh at anything? I ain't armed, Doc, 's no need to look at me like that," Sniper rolls his eyes at the skeptical German, who quickly motions to retract his outstretched arms as if attempting to hide his intentions to search the Australian.

"Lawrence, eh, Lawrence!" Sniper calls boomingly, looking carefully about the vacated beds. "Hey Doc, I don't wanna get your heart racin' or nothin', but—where the Hell is'e?"

Sniper turns his head to exchange glances with the startled doctor, who scurries about the medibay in silent franticness, checking about everywhere for the young man.

"Scout!" Heinrich calls as he rushes away toward an office in the back, Jack rooted with dread in the spot. "Larry!" He calls in a raucously accelerating worry, his eyes scanning the hueless, sun soaked infirmary in half hearted desperation—perhaps there was no need for the anxiety—surely Scout was around there somewhere—

The black and white tiles under Sniper's feet weave in and out of focus, as if he saw it all through mocking, kaleidoscope eyes. The granite and concrete of the walls weave about in an imaginary swirl of sea sickness, the graying minerals doing much to entrap the coldness of both the sterile clinic and the same chilling freeze within Sniper himself.

"Where are ya, love?" Sniper calls, lifting his foot and pacing about slowly, the other man caught in the bout of a frantic search. "Seriously, Lawrence, you better not be ignorin' me!"

"He is not in here at all, Jack!" Heinrich gasps, grabbing Sniper by his vest and dragging him a bit deeper into the infirmary, the two craning their necks upward, the same silent sense of realization washing over them both.

"Ze vindow is open, Jack,"

"How in the Hell did you manage to let 'im escape, Doc?!"

"I—I did not let him, Herr Sniper! I do not know how he managed to—to escape vizout making any noise, or in his condition, especially vizhin ze short time ve vere talking—"

"I broke his nose, Doc, not his legs," Jack rolls his eyes, cursing under his breath as he takes another look at the open window.

"But at this rate I'll be lucky if'e doesn't get his whole bloody body broken in half."

-

"…Know what will happen should you not carry out her request, Lawrence!"

Sniper presses himself closer against the wall, his breath catching in his throat as he desperately tries to repress it in its huffed noisiness. The mortar of the base's exterior brushes against his shoulder as Sniper in turn rubs along its width, inching in closer to better understand Dmitri's low, but oddly cheerful mumblings.

"Dude, I fuckin' know!"

Sniper's fingers curl in a reactionary instinctiveness against the brick at the sound of Scout's voice, the damp wall soaking up his creeping shadow.

"Then you should also know that you do not have _time_ to be lying around under Heinrich's care, crying over such a little boo boo!"

"Hey, fuck you!"

"Honestly, RED's Sniper actually has you all riled up, leaving you like that! I thought the man _loved you_?!"

Dmitri's enthusiastic laughter is as excited as his own whisper, his voice soft,a sickening jolly lightness within his breast. Daring to lean forward ever slightly, Sniper catches a peek at the man's frame.

He'd never seen this Spy before—this fact truly being a feat of the man's talent for espionage—but, much like Luc, Sniper could only describe him as somewhat towering—particularly in comparison to Scout, who stands though still before him, crouching somewhat in a noticeable cower, as if nearing too close to his comrade would earn him more than a simple talking to…

"He hits like a fuckin' girl," Scout spits, and Sniper can't help but roll his eyes.

"I assume a girl has left you wizh a broken nose in the past then?"

Scout scowls as Dmitri partakes in yet another laugh at his own jab, Scout letting his hand brush subconsciously against his bandages.

"Based on what I have heard from Heinrich, you rather _deserved_ the abandonment! I've always said you should watch your mouth, Larry, RED's Sniper has a Bushman's temper—!"

"So he's been talkin' to ya, huh?" Scout tries to sneer, but his hunched shoulders and hands crossed cautiously under his arms counter any sort of harsh indifference Scout tries desperately to convey.

"Who, Heinrich? No—though you should know better than to assume that a Spy is limited in his ways of obtaining information, Larry!"

"Don't you fuckin' call me that!"

"It means that I overheard the good doctor discussing your condition wizh Mikhail; which reminds me…"

Sniper's heart quickens as he leans closer to the two, Dmitri stepping closer to Scout. Jack stands tensed and ready to lunge forward should the man make any attempt to make any physical statements, watching the two more intently than before…

"Our comrades are starting to catch on, Scout,"

Lawrence's eyes widen visibly, the young man shifting them about nervously, his frame shrinking from anxious apology. "There is no need to be so afraid of me! It means nothing for me if they find out _your_ little secret!"

Sniper growls, a protective desire welling within him, the man finding himself less and less able to stand by with each passing second—

"But when you do not uphold your end of the bargain, I am afraid I have no choice but to reveal it! And as much as I _love_good gossip it would be a shame just to rat you out after everything we've been through!"

"But you already did! She already knows!" Scout sobs, glaring upwards at the sighing man, who simply shrugs in response.

"Well then if the Administrator already knows..." Dmitri begins, patting Scout softly on the cheek. "...then there is nothing to get so worked up about!"

"Look, keep your hands off Jack, ya hear?!" Scout snaps in a menacing shortness, pushing the man's hand away. "Stop laughin'! I ain't jokin', this ain't funny!"

"No, of course it isn't—it is neither your predicament nor your request I find so humourous, but rather that you think it appropriate to tell me what to do! You're a real kidder, Scout!"

"Damn straight I do! And if you—you even try hurtin' him again—"

"What?" Dmitri chuckles, squeezing Scout's cheeks in his fingers, pinching them teasingly. "What in all the world would you do?" Dmitri chuckles in mock interest, Scout shaking from his grip. "Tell Heinrich? Just because he seems to have his eyes on you,"

"I'd fuckin' kill ya, dude," Scout interrupts flatly, his eyes narrowed aggressively.

"I don't understand why you would want to keep the man who tosses you aside so easily… clearly he can't be bothered to care as much for you as you do for him!"

"He ain't got nothin' to do with any of this, man—this deal was between you and me, so you keep him outta this!"

"Au contraire, as RED's Spy always says—if the man is your lover, then I would like to _think_ he is just as involved in all of this! Inadvertently of course—after all, I'm pretty sure Jack has _no_ idea you're so ashamed of people knowing you're _fucking_the man,"

"Can it, ya greasebag,"

"All I'm saying is, the Administrator's request—"

"I _know_ what she wants!"

"So then what does it matter what I do with the Sniper?"

Jack flinches slightly as Scout brings a bandaged fist behind his head, swinging it forward to slam violently into Dmitri's wide smile. He falls back against the metallic wall, clutching his swollen, bleeding mouth. "I ain't fuckin' kidding, man," Scout growls, cracking his knuckles. "Next time it's gonna be my fuckin' bat; I'll fuckin' kill you if you touch him. I don't give a shit what the Administrator has to say, I ain't got nothin' to lose at this point,"

Dmitri pulls the ski mask over his head in one swift motion, revealing to Sniper the entirety of his thick, curly black hair, the ringlets falling lazily against what Sniper can only partially identify as a very distinct jaw line. Eying him quickly, Sniper has to admit the man had some rather stunning green eyes, the complexion of his flesh slightly darkened, for a hint of olive rests in his skin.

"Nice blow," Dmitri smirks, Scout however still fuming. "Touching, Lawrence! Your defiance and display on behalf of the Bushman is _darling_—though if you cannot let the Australian go, it will certainly mean death for you, the Administrator has alluded to this herself,"

"I ain't doin' it!" Scout hisses in a stubborn pout, balling his fists and turning to leave.

"Oh?"

"I ain't doin' it—I don't give a shit what you or her do to me!"

"But your Sniper? Certainly you would not want to hurt him by ignoring your duties and basically conceding to death? Scout?! Scout!"

Dmitri shouts after the young man, who throws the man an informal middle finger and nothing else in his enraged stride. Sniper on the other hand wastes no time in following after him, regardless of who sees him in his hasty sprint toward the fuming Scout.

"Lawrence!" he calls, wind rushing in his ears, his glasses bob against the bridge of his nose, threatening to slip off his face and crack instantly underneath his rushing feet.

"Lawrence, stop, please—!"

Scout makes an attempt to speed away as he always does, to leave Sniper miles behind him in his hysterical bewilderment. Scout's front crashes against the nipping metal, the young man grunting as Jack slams into him. He instantly curls his arms around Scout's waist so as to prevent him from escaping.

"Larry, you bloody idiot!" Sniper snaps as he turns Scout to face him, slamming his back against the wall. Sniper is actually shocked to see Scout's wavering eyes and their fearful dart across his face. He looked pathetic—absolutely pathetic; his nose and upper lip concealed behind the white bandages, Scout's frame nearly shivering under his arms (though whether it is from anger or the incapability to remain calm, he does not know).

His lip trembles as within his eyes a myriad of emotions cycle through in a million framed rotation, Sniper unable to pinpoint just which one it is that causes Scout to close his eyes and shake his head. Sniper slowly eases his grasp against the Scout's shoulders, the young man making no attempt to escape. "What's goin' on, love?" Sniper asks quietly, eyes narrowing as he shouts an exasperated "Huh?!" at the mute Scout he holds, shaking his frame as he still refuses to utter a word. "What was he talkin' about, what does the Administrator know, what does she want you t'do?!"

"D-Dmitri!" Scout mouths into his ear piece, eyes rooted on Sniper.

"No, don't—what're y'callin' him for?! Tell me what's goin' on, Lawrence! Please, love! Before you get killed!"

"Dmitri!" Scout shouts again, and the instinct to run overwhelms Sniper in a fierce wave, Scout eying him regretfully, as if widening in pure apology.

Sniper does just that. He runs, with a final look back at the Scout, who can only watch him silently in return.

-

"Why in the fuck would I lie about this sort of thing, Luc?!" Sniper snaps as the Frenchman asks him for the third time in five minutes if he is sure what he heard and saw was honestly to be believed.

"I simply ask because I fear zhat if I were to react to a false lead, it would only make zhings worse! Situations such as zhese require delicacy—"

"Dmitri was standin' there laughin' 'cause Scout's gonna die, mate! 'Nd I know it's reckless, but I'm only doin' what y'told me—"

"What in zhe world did I tell you?!"

"T'not let him outta my sight'n keep him safe; I know you might think my idea is rubbish—"

"Certainly not! Foolish, or per'aps reckless, but certainly not rubbish—on zhe contrary, I zhink it is a good one indeed in zhat it might work,"

"He took off his mask, too. Scout decked'im pretty hard in the mouth—I ain't ever seen the mongrel hit like that before—"

"Trust me, zhe boy can 'it razher 'ard if zhe urge strikes him—"

"But'e took it off t'make sure his teeth were still in place or somethin'—guy has this curly arse hair'n a real square jaw—"

"Did you manage to get a look at his features?"

"A little…'e's got these green eyes..."

"Hmm…well, I am afraid you will not be so lucky anytime soon—unless Lawrence gets angry enough to 'it 'im again, causing 'im to reveal 'imself; what did 'e say to make Lawrence so angry?"

"Kid got wound up 'cause he was makin' jokes about killin' me," Sniper reddens, and Luc shakes his head, coupling the motion with the release of an aggravated sigh.

"You two really are alike—unless you are simply rubbing off on 'im,"

"Look, Lawrence's absolutely torn up about somethin', 'nd if he won't talk to you, me, or Heinrich, then disguisin' as the tosser is about the best we can do,"

"A Spy disgusing as a Spy," Luc chuckles, taking a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it lightly.

"Did you notice if 'e 'ad a smoking 'abit?"

"All o'you Europeans do, eh?"

"But of course! Zhe same way every Australian 'as a kangaroo wife, non?" the man retorts, Sniper smirking and tossing Luc his cigarette case.

"Not the sheilas, I imagine they'd prefer Joeys; but get bloody goin', mate!"

"I am, Jack—"

"Go, go, go, go, go!" Sniper snaps, pressing various buttons in his disguise kit, Luc's cries of "Hey!" muffled as the device works as it typically does and shifts the man's appearance within a matter of seconds.

"Don't waste no time, 'nd don't forget t'laugh a lot—this bloke seriously had a case o'some fuckin' giggles…"

"I'd rather like to remain zhe only person wizhin 2Fort who hasn't suffered any sort of brawl related injuries,"

Sniper does a double take as the frame of Luc remains the same, save a paper plate with a pictorial rendition of Dmitri's concealed face that sits atop Luc's face.

"Hope you speak good Italian, mate," Sniper sighs leeringly. "'Cause your disguise sure ain't foolin' me,"

"Zhat is because we are allies, you imbecile," Luc mumbles indignantly, taking Sniper's advice and wasting no more time. Cloaking himself, he makes haste for BLU's base, and Sniper can only pray that Scout sees more to the man's disguise than a paper plate.

-  
>Scout licks his lips quietly, eyes about the field.<p>

_'All it takes is one moment. One moment, 'nd that's it…'_

Gulping slightly, he tries not to allow the flow of words and second thoughts cloud his vision or separate him from his will.

_'Just keep watchin' for him'_

Sniper saw the bullet hit the dirt a few feet away from himself before the sound of its fire registered itself in his conscious; he jumped, sure. The sound of a bullet slicing the air in its wake was always a loud and jarring sound; especially when the sounds of battle were deafened due to the lack of combat, when the throttle of gunfire was once again back to being an extraordinary happening, a rarity of an experience.

It was all Sniper could do to keep quiet when he saw the bullet penetrate the dirt, the crack of a sniper rifle echoing across the light green fields and well into the cloudless, blue sky; and when Sniper craned his head upwards, eyes following the trajectory the bullet must have taken, his heart stops completely as if the shot had been on target, and a horrified Scout, sniper rifle cradled in his arms, stares at him, the two rooted in the same disbelieving shock.


	32. Insanity of the Enraged

Every bang, Scout noticed, elicited a subsequent flutter of dusty flakes that in turn caked the cold floor upon which he sits, coating it with an ancient, untouched and unswept look. Scout, who sat huddled still in the concealing alcove in BLU's basement, sniper rifle tangled in his arms, had to agree with his conscious in that dust and dirt of unknowing origins was much preferred to the alternative of smeared blood or something equally as unpleasant garnishing the tiles of the cellar.

Microscopic particles catch in his eyelashes, resting against the short brown strands without any point of pressure or weight. He shuts them, for they tear up as the result of irritation, and all he can do is hope that his life should not be taken from him in his voluntary blindness. As the collision of yet another of RED's rockets makes itself known against the iron structure of BLU's fortress, melting away at the steel and nails holding together that what is essentially Scout's only refuge, he can only draw the rifle closer to his body, as if the firearm would have any lethal say against the kamikaze like onslaught of a bazooka. The ceiling above him shakes, and the beeping of his Engineer's sentry, whose mechanical whirl from which he'd managed to extract somewhat of a morbid comfort, is thankfully still on its regulatory auditorial track despite the pummel of explosive damage the base takes. Each beep of the turret was a signal to Scout that he wasn't alone in the base should REDs be able to break through Jane's chokehold in the battlements and attempt to charge it.

Scout gulps as the same sensation of uselessness, that had been creeping in the form of fear since the beginning of the battle, aches at his wired mind now than with more intensity than before. RED's surprise attack on their terrain and attempt to infiltrate their defenses had done much to fry what was left of the Bostonian's nerves. And yet the Administrator allowed it. Unauthorised strikes against the team were up until this point considered tactically invalid. Perhaps it was his punishment, he ponders hysterically. Perhaps he'd brought this Hell upon his own comrades with his actions, action's he'd fought to keep hidden for so long…

His frame shakes slightly as his arms press along the cool firearm he still cradles, his back slamming in gentle jerks against the concrete of the cellar walls he prays hold up for the sake of his life. His eyes are wide and his teeth clamp down onto the flesh of his chapped and irritated lips, for he'd been licking at them nervously throughout the duration of his retreat.

The flow of disbelief and hysteria still pulses and blinds his thought process in overwhelming flashes and scathing reminders of just whom the rifle he embraces against his chest initially belonged to, the very same 'whom' he'd attempted to kill twenty minutes ago...

The madness of war really was a cruel reality, very much real and alive, for it and it only took slight chances of exposure to bring an otherwise clear thinking young man to cling to the weapon of his technical enemy like a mother ready to protect her beloved son. Scout can no longer hide his sob, a telltale quiver of his bottom lip alerting him physically of this fact. If death were to come, he silently reasons overtop his increasingly heavier breathing, then so be it; the drone of the sentry upstairs has stopped, which only meant nothing stood in between the young man and what he hoped was a painless death, a surrender void of humiliation.

The very fever and heat that bubbles in the pores of his sweat drenched skin settles into his mind as well, dulling his emotions before they are able to build a violent enough stagger of incalculable rage and helplessness within him. Wiping his eyes firmly, Lawrence can only allow the memory of his attempted murder of Sniper to play before him, in distorted recollections that grow longer and longer in their duration every time his mind's eye dwells on the happening.

'I can't believe I actually did it...'

"Charge the basement, boys, there's no way anyone in there can hold out for any longer—!"

Scout knew that voice, the Soldier it belonged to enjoyed reigning a distinct humiliation upon his dominated enemies. More dust trickles from the ceiling, and Lawrence shrieks as the poorly barricaded door snaps off its hinges and slams anti climactically against the floor. Scout's heart races as he dares a glance upon his intruder, and the frame of Jack finds itself in the now vacated space. Slowly, the young man retracts his legs closer to his body, and his eyes widen in a silent attempt to express that what a gasp or yelp normally would in such a situation.

"Heh, would y'look at that; the whole rest o'your team's givin' it all they got'n you're hidin' away in here 'bout ready t'piss all over yourself! Oh what, y'gonna actually _kill_ me this time?!" Jack teases, Scout hoisting himself to his feet, lifting the rifle in what he intends to be a menacing manner, though he is much too hesitant in his motions to fool him Jack into submission. His eyes waver nervously up at the Australian, his teeth bared from attempted defense.

"You're right pathetic, mate; look at you, y'can't even hold the damn thing without stumblin' around!" Sniper snaps, snatching his very own rifle from Lawrence's hands, Scout slipping backwards and falling on his backside.

"Let alone aim or kill me with it—you're lucky y'didn't break an arm or two with your God awful posture…"

Scout says nothing, the whole of his conscious focused on the floor. He jumps as Sniper tosses the firearm, though his expression remains the same in its poor attempt at a pouty fierceness.

"You didn't really think you could kill me with that aim o'yours, did ya? Or were ya countin' on a lucky shot?!"

Scout scoffs, arms folded across his chest. The two are silent for the most painful ten seconds of Scout's life, Sniper's ears tuned acutely in an effort to pick of the sound of approaching BLUs—he was standing in their base (albeit hidden in a rather safe alcove in the basement) in the midst of an argument with their youngest, after all, and standing over him with his rifle would certainly warrant aggression in his direction, for only Heinrich knew of their relationship.

"Honestly, you're lucky y'hit the dirt, even—with aim like that you'd prolly end up shootin' your own eye out if y'held'er any longer," Jack mocks, and Scout, unable to listen any further, turns his aggravated expression onto the Australian before him.

"I just tried fuckin' _killing_ you, and the only fuckin' thing you can talk about is my _aim_?!" Scout cries, and Sniper responds to the fuming young man's inquiry with a careless chuckle.

"'S not like it's anythin' worth gettin' worked up over! With your sharpshootin'—well, dunno if I can call 'em _skills_—the sound o'the bullet flyin' 'cross the 'Fort was more menacin' than you!" Sniper shakes his head. "Honestly, you could barely lift 'er off the ground! Poor Matilda prolly had a heart attack when _your_ grimy little fingers tried pickin' 'er up—!"

"Why do you keep sayin' that, how the fuck do you know I couldn't lift your stupid shit?! You weren't even fuckin' there, Jack!"

"Didn't even have the courtesy t'invite me t'my own attempted murder," Jack tisks, Lawrence placing his hands over his ears and shaking his head violently.

"But I didn't even _have_ t'be there, love, it was plain obvious with the way you were holdin' 'er when I looked up'nd saw ya in the window! Slippin' 'nd topplin' all over the place!"

"You're fuckin' nuts," Scout shakes his head, emitting a nervous chuckle. "Fuckin' _nuts_—I had a gun aimed at ya!"

"Obviously ya didn't, 'cause, ya see, this is how a sniper rifle works: ya aim for the head, 'nd if you're on target, the head quits functionin,;"

"Fuck you—"

"'Nd obviously I still got mine—"

"Can't you just take me seriously?! For one second?!" Scout hisses, tossing his bat furiously, staring the man down with an aggressive challenge.

"Listen, Lawrence, it's kinda hard for me t'take you for an actual threat when you're standin' here, beggin' for me t'do so—'specially when you can barely handle the weapon you're countin' on t'save your _life_—'bout ready to cry your eyes out! Right, right, look at you! You're tryin' t'hide 'em now, but I see 'em!" Jack chuckles as the young man lunges for him, roaring from pent up frustration.

"You're lucky _I_ decided t'come down here 'nd not my mates!"

His fists strike Sniper's chest in half hearted swipes, though Sniper can only sigh as he takes them into his hands, pulling the young man so he falls into his arms and against his chest.

"S'alright, love," Sniper mumbles in his ear, his hand smoothing over Scout's back calmingly, the other curling in his hair. "'S no need for the tears, now…" Sniper assures him, the distinct wetness sliding in warming droplets along the crook of his neck.

"Larry," Sniper mumbles again, giving him a loving squeeze, pulling Scout even closer to him in his embrace. He sighs, looking over his shoulder. "I know things're rough for ya, love," he begins, his fingers curling in Scout's cropped hair. "'Nd I wanna be there for ya, I really do, love—but I can't help ya none if ya don't tell me what's goin' on,"

Scout says nothing, though Jack can tell words form in his hectic mind.

"Y'gonna tell me what the Hell this whole thing's about?! Why this Dmitri's runnin' around tryin' t'kill us 'nd why _your_ arse is disappearin' for days at a time?! Or maybe why you're tryin _t'kill_ me?!"

"She knows!" Scout whispers, slipping from Sniper's embrace and checking about the closet for eavesdroppers, despite the fact the whole of the pantry can only fit the two of them. He brushes the older man out of the way, Sniper responding with a disgruntled "watch it!" as Scout pushes the door back into the frame, shoving a large sack of flour in front of it to hoist it up.

"She _who_, Lawrence? 'Nd what does _she_ know?"

"The Administrator kinda knows, ya know—about us..." he explains carefully, avoiding the man's eye.

"WHAT?!"

Sniper stares blankly at the young man, as if giving him a few seconds to dry his face with a swift swipe of the back of his hand with a passionate 'SURPRISE!' to follow shortly thereafter. Instead the Australian receives a curt nod from Lawrence, who opens his mouth widely to keep going.

"_Bugger me, Larry_,;"

"Dmitri told her.."

"'_Nd how the Hell did he know?!_"

"R-remember when we came back from leave a few months ago? After the whole date thing? And how we were fightin'?!"

"_How could I ever forget_?!"

"I was talkin' with Doc in the bay about us, and he just kinda came in. He acted like he didn't hear nothin', but lookin' back on it, he musta heard everything,"

"Y'fuckin' kiddin' me?!"

"Nah, I ain't jokin'! The next mornin' he was all, _'I hear you with RED's sharpshooter'_ or some bullshit—talkin' 'bout it was _cute and sweet'n shit_, then the next thing I knew he threatened to tell the Administrator if I didn't make 'im happy,"

""Nd what does that mean, love,"

"Well, he wanted money, so I had to pay him to shut up, and I did; for months, actually, but I only get so much per mission, ya know? and I mean, dude wanted a ton of from me,"

"Why in the world didn't _y'tell_ me, Lawrence?!"

"'Cause I didn't want you freakin' out'n makin' things worse! I didn't know what the fuck, Jack, I panicked! Besides, I—I was handlin' it on my own just fine!"

"Yeah, up until the point where he starts cloakin' about 'nd buggerin' ya! What'n the _fuck's_ that about, love?! Why is your team's Spy pretendin' t'be me 'nd havin' sex with ya, 'nd how in the _bloody Hell_ does that equate t'you _handlin' everything jus' fine_ in your head?!"

"I wasn't expectin' him to do nothin'!"

"Funny how he literally did!"

"Look, are you done with the fuckin' snark?! I'm bein' serious, here! It ain't like I fuckin' _seduced_ him, Jack! Dude pretended to be you, did me 'nd took pictures of the whole thing!"

"Bloody pervert, he is!"

"I don't think he wanted me, Jack. Nah, it didn't have nothin' to do with wantin' me; I think it was 'cause I couldn't pay no more—'nd he came at me, with those pictures, sayin' that I was your slut'nd shit, that he had _proof_, and that if I didn't pay 'im five hundred in a week, the Administrator would know all about it!"

"For fuck's sake, Larry, _why—didn't—you—tell—me—?!_"

"Well, I didn't just have that kind'o money layin' around—!"

"You're a bloody idiot, I would have given it t'ya in a heartbeat!"

"Yeah, but what, was I supposed to expect you to give me the money without you wonderin' why I needed it?!" Lawrence shrieks, and Jack bites down on his bottom lip admittedly.

"When your team mate's humpin' ya 'nd threatenin' t'out your insubordinate homosexual relationship with your enemy, it might be time t'put things like me wantin' t'know why y'need five hundred bucks _aside_!"

"Well I was kinda ankle deep in this shit, 'nd I can't tell nobody, 'nd fuckin' Luc was on my case sayin' I was actin' weird 'nd suspicious'nd that if I didn't tell him what was goin' on he'd say somethin' to you—I told him to butt out or else I'd break his fuckin' neck,"

"You're drivin' me mad with your right stupid choices, love,"

"Not that it fuckin' mattered, 'cause I wake up on a Tuesday, ready to take on Granary and kick RED's fuckin' asses 'n give Dmitri his money when Jane pulls me out of bed with that Miss Pauling sayin' the Administrator wanted me in her office— musta been tired of waitin' for me to pay and gave her the pictures anyway,"

"Holy Shit…"

"She's freakin' scary, Jack, she's—she's psycho, even, U wasn't expectin' the 'meeting' with her to take two days, man—but—I thought I was a goner, 'n I was so afraid, Jack, you have no fuckin' idea, 'nd I thought for sure that when she was done with me she was gonna summon you too!"

"How're you still alive, love?!"

"Ha, well—she kinda said it would be a waste o'my skill to just let me go, so she told me to 'prove my loyalty' by killin' you,"

"So she didn't hurt you?"

"Nah, she just—" but he clams up, and Sniper clears his throat in an attempt to jar him from his thoughts. "She put a gun to my head and told me to kill you!"

"So you break into my van, steal Matilda, run away t'your battlements, 'nd try doin' me in with some of the lousiest attempts at snipin' I've ever seen—"

"Would you shut the fuck up about my aim?!"

"All I'm sayin' is that you would'a been better off tryin' t'get me at point blank with your little scattergun o'yours, 'specially if your life was dependent on the status o'my own—"

"I said shut it, wombat,"

"Just a little joke, Larry, no need t'take it like your Doc handles 'em..."

"Shit won't be so funny when we're fuckin' dead," Lawrence snaps, Jack responding with a simple sigh and scratch behind his neck. "Good _Lord_, that's a jam, love—well, least we don't have t'worry 'bout keepin' it all a secret, huh?"

"I don't think the others know, Jack..."

"Hm—s'pose it doesn't make a difference at this point, eh?"

Scout shrugs.

"Jus' wished y'had told me a _bit sooner_…"

"Yeah, sorry, I—wasn't thinkin',"

"Well, seein' as I'm still alive—which shouldn't come as a surprise t'you—"

"Don't even say it, Jack,"

"If the Administrator knows I'm still runnin' around, what does that mean for you?"

"Hell if I know,"

Scout plops downward, back against the wall, wrists resting on his knees.

"I ain't had a chance to think that far,"

"I guess you thought that shot was gonna make it, eh? Figured y'wouldn't need to," Sniper chuckles darkly, sitting himself comfortably next to the young man. Sniper's melancholy smirk is met by an exhausted sideways glance of Scout's, his cheeks puffed and lips pursed, as if he were determined not to retch all over the very floor they sit upon. "That you could go ahead'n pump me full o'my own lead'n that would be the end of it,"

"Don't even fuckin' say that!" Scout shouts, though his frame wracks in a lurching hiccup. "Standin' there, with that gun, thinkin' that—it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, Jack! It wasn't no 'fuckin' end of nothin'—"

Sniper sighs, wrapping an affectionate arm around his shoulder, pulling Scout closer to him. "'S'alright, no need t'get so worked up, love, I shouldn'ta put it like that..."

"Standin' there, in that window, waitin' for you—you ain't got no idea what that felt like for me!" Scout continues however. "I—I didn't—I couldn't shoot you—even if I could have aimed at ya, I never coulda done it, Jack!" Scout turns his head to face the man who holds him, and the expression that meets him nearly petrifies the Australian; Scout's muscles are relaxed into a silent calm, a weary seriousness and worry laced resignation emanating from him in negative waves. Sniper'd never seen his Lawrence so _desperate_; the older man opens his mouth as if to inquire what it was Scout wanted him to do, though before the words establish themselves proper, Jack ponders on just what it was there was he even _could_ do.

"So then that means I'm dead!" the young man whispers, Sniper still unable to respond in any sort of meaningful way, or assure him a wide smile and broad clasp on the shoulder that this turmoil and anguish on his behalf was simply a product of his over reactive conscious. "When she figures out that I couldn't do it, she'll have my ass for it, man,"

"Then do it, Lawrence!"

"Are you fuckin' crazy?! I ain't gonna kill you!" Scout snaps firmly, giving the man an exasperated punch on the shoulder.

"'Nd if you think I'm gonna let you suffer any more than you already have by stickin' around, you're mistaken, love," Jack sighs. "If dyin' keeps y'alive..."

"And what about _you_, Jack? You - you think I'm just gonna turn you in to save myself?! You ain't gotta fuckin' die!" Lawrence shrieks, fists balled defiantly at his sides.

"'S not what you've been tellin' me, you said the Administrator wants my life in exchange for yours, no? All this time I was worried lovin' me was gonna get _you_ killed!"

"I ain't gonna kill you, I can't and I won't Jack, so shut the fuck up!"

"Then I'll kill myself, 'nd you'd do well t'pretend like it was you who fired the shot—"

"NO! Fuck you, fuck the Administrator, fuck Dmitri, fuck whoever wants you dead'nd whoever wants me to do it, 'cause I ain't, 'nd I don't ca—"

Scout instantly relaxes as Sniper's ungloved fingers curl behind his head, the man taking Scout's lips into his in a gentle sweep, hushing Scout of his frenzied rant. "Alright, you don't have t'kill me if you don't wanna," Sniper grumbles moodily, allowing Scout to kiss the corner of his mouth absentmindedly. "Only you would sound disappointed about not dyin'..." Lawrence mumbles. "But if my bein' alive just makes it all worse, I swear I won't ever forgive ya," Jack chuckles in return.

Sniper grunts as he shifts so his back presses itself firmly against the cool steel of the basement walls, Scout curling in Sniper's embrace and resting his head against his shoulder. "Now you're just makin' it sound like you want me to kill ya," he attempts to joke, though the soft excuse of the typical laugh he usually sports does nothing to hide the salty residue an escaped tear or two was prone to leaving behind. "I thought I said no tears, love," Sniper smiles smally, sighing as his hand curls deeper in Scout's hair, the slight sensation of the younger man's lips grazing along his neck enough to calm him. An affection Sniper never knew Scout contained for him rests in the young man's tired eyes. "We're gonna get through this, alright?! I'm not gonna let anythin' happen to ya; Jus' keep calm, I'll be here no matter what; from now on, this is _our_problem, 'lright?!"

The first smile Sniper'd seen the young man produce in days spreads across Scout's mouth, the Australian pulling the young man's frame so it rests against his chest. "What, were you expectin' me t'learn what was goin' on 'nd then go back along my merry way? I'm afraid not, love..." Jack's gentle whisper flutters in the younger man's ear, the Australian tugging on Scout's shoulder, Lawrence pressing himself closer against the man as a result.

"H-Herr Sniper—!" Heinrich gasps quietly as he stumbles unexpectedly upon the two men who sit huddled and curled, compacted in their hidden corner. Lawrence jumps, eyes rounded with sheepishness as they make contact with those of his fumbling doctor, the man's white jacket tattered and soaked in fresh blood, though the man himself does not seem injured.

"Z—zhere you are, Junge," Heinrich clears his throat, reddening as Sniper slowly retracts his hands from around Lawrence's body.

"I have been searching for you ze duration of ze whole battle, vhere in ze vorld have you been?!"

"Uh, here!" Scout rolls his eyes, pulling the blue shirt so it covers his front once more.

"'Dammit' nozhing! Vhy vould you ever zhink it vas a good idea to—to—_engage_ in such activities in zhe middle of war—?!"

"I didn't think _shit_, and I ain't got a clue what you mean by _activities_,"

"If you do not see ze discrepancy of you hiding avay in ze basement, having a cuddle session viz your—your—your _Sniper_vhile ze rest of us are fighting for our _lives_, zen zere is an issue! And yet you do not even vonder if your own comrades are alive—!"

"Are any of you dead?!" Scout snaps, Heinrich shaking his head no. "Okay then, so what the fuck does it matter?!"

"And zen you furzer zrow us all avay by housing a RED wizin ze base—!"

"He ain't just some fuckin' _RED_, 'Rich, you watch how you talk about Jack," Lawrence growls, allowing his glare a few seconds' more time for Heinrich to comprehend the sincerity of his advice. The German shares a glance with Sniper, the Australian shrugging, lips pointed downward.

"Sorry if I have offended you in any vay, Herr Sniper," Heinrich croaks quietly, lifting his hands slowly to further emphasise his nebbish innocence.

"No—'s nothin'," Jack mumbles, the two watching Scout patiently, careful not to trod upon any triggers of his long established fragile temper. "'E's got a bit of a point, love," Sniper whispers, standing up and extending a hand to lift Scout to his feet.

"I shouldn'ta gotten so close to ya—not _now_,"

"What's wrong with now?! What does it matter if we're just gonna fuckin' die anyway!"

"Zat is _enough_, Lawrence! How _dare_ you surrender so easily?! Do you zink you are somehow considered _special_, exempt from ze call of duty?! Ve are giving our _lives_ to protect each ozer and zis base, and all you can do is enjoy _kisses and cuddles_ and declare zese your final moments?! "

"'Cause you're doin' _your_ job by standin' around and bitchin' at me—if it's such a goddamn massacre up there, maybe you should be healin' instead of wankin' at me!"

Scout slips back on his heels as if the traction of his soles simply decided to give way and coat the floor beneath him in crackless ice. Heinrich, who stands still with his hand outstretched and firm at his breast, seems to have no intention of apologizing for the backhanded slap he'd done unto Scout just seconds ago.

The Australian simply gapes as he turns his head quickly onto Scout so his dumbfounded shock does not go wasted without a recipient. Slowly, he holds his arms out with no real idea as to what is meant behind the gesture. Scout holds his reddening cheek, the palm of his hand cupped gingerly around the tingling flesh, maintaining a fierce glare, eyes fixed on the doctor who stands flushed with puce tinted anger.

"…I see you've taken t'my speech patterns," Sniper's attempt at humour goes over completely unreceived, the men for whom the lighthearted interjection was intended still preoccupied by a silent vigilance of the other.

"Oh, boy..." Sniper sighs, letting his arms drop to his side, wincing as another rocket collides with the exterior above, and dust drools in sandy sheets from the walls and shelves as a result, pooling in the creases of their shoes and onto their tense shoulders.

"What does it fuckin' matter to me?! I'm dead—I'm fuckin' _dead_..."

"Now Lawrence, we've been over this, love; you're not gonna die, we're gonna come outta this t'gether, 'nd I'll be damned if the dame thinks She's gonna get 'er hands on you again, d'you hear me?!"

"Vat do you mean _outta zis_?! Scout _should_ be battling, fighting alongside his comrades, as should _you_!"

"Dunno if you've been _briefed_, Doc, but Lawrence tried _murderin'_ me about forty five minutes ago, right b'fore Tavish decided t'lob one o'them pipes at those gas rigs near your lot! I imagine he heard the shot 'nd decided t'take action b'fore your lot did,"

"Vat has gotten into you?! You vould murder your own Jack?!"

"Hey, you don' know _shit_ about what happened, alright?!"

"'Ey now, Larry, calm down—"

"Don't you fuckin' tell me to calm down!"

"'Nd obviously Lawrence _missed_, he tried snipin' me—'nd then 'e musta ran down here'nd hightailed in this pantry,"

"Alright, I pussied out, you done yet?!"

"He's had an extremely rough few weeks, Doc, go easy on'im. He got overwhelmed 'nd just hid away from everythin'—can't say I blame 'im,"

"Just shut the fuck up about it—!"

"Judgin' by the look on your Doc's face 'e may or may not want an _explanation_, don't think'e wants us t'shut up about it 't'all, really,"

"N-not now, Herr Sniper—I must be back to my teammates, zey need me up zere!"

"'Course, but I gotta take Lawrence outta here, mate—'s a lot t'explain now like y'said, but he needs t'be with me, y'have to understand; this isn't cowardice, it's a question of his _life_!"

"Vere vill you be taking him?!"

"T'the van, 's the only place we've got for now," Sniper sighs, Scout settling with chewing on his bottom lip, like a toddler forced to leave the reasoning to two adults.

"Trust me Doc, I'm the last person ready t'hurt him," Sniper snaps, for Heinrich's eyes widened with a borderline insulting hint of silent caution on Jack's behalf.

"D'you think you could come find us there after this whole thing's sorted out?!"

"I—I do not _know_ Herr Sniper!" Heinrich growls impatiently, inching hesitantly toward the shoddily upheld door as a scream for his name sounds from overhead.

"Should ze Good Lord permit me to survive zis—"

"'Lright, we'll be there, Doc, we'll fill ya in, I promise—but Lawrence's life is on the line right now, I gotta get'im outta here, with me,"

"Zen go, _go_!" Heinrich roars, pushing them out of the pantry. "Take ze severs, and get _out_!"

-

A small hiccup sounds from the Australian's mattress, Lawrence, who sits twisted in the man's sheets, following the short gasp with a drawn out sign in hopes to regulate his unsteady breathing. His eyes hardly dare to blink, his eyes growing ever drier, though plastered still on the back of Jack, who peeks through the carnation pink curtains the cover the small window. "Nothin' so far."

"...No one's comin' then?" Scout asks quietly, thankful when Jack settles next to him, shaking his head.

"Listen t'me—you're not t'leave this van, d'you understand me?" Sniper hisses at the young man who sits on his mattress. Scout nods slowly, eyes watchful of Sniper and his humourless glare. "She's gonna know by now y'didn't do me in—'nd I know for a fact she ain't gonna let it slide—'s best if you jus' stay by my side, 'nd lay low, alright love?"

Scout nods again, almost as if afraid any spoken word would alert the entirety of existence of his presence.

"Aw, now—'s no need t'look so shaken, I've got ya, alright?"

"N-no offense, Jack, but that don't mean shit," Scout heaves apologetically, the words obviously unsettling to him as they concretely speak the reality of the whole ordeal.

"That woman's fuckin' _nuts_, Jack—Tavish didn't throw that grenade, it was her fuckin' grunts—she knew I wasn't gonna fuckin' do it, so she—she sent 'em out there to come and pick me up'nd take me to'er, right?! They attacked the base 'nd made it look like you all did it so we'd start blowin' each other up—that way they could slip in and take me out 'nd back to her without no one noticin' the Administrator's vehicles on the area,"

"_What?!_"

"Yeah, that shit was nothin' but a distraction,"

"But—don't take this the wrong way, love, but it seems awfully reckless t'start a whole battle 'nd risk casualties jus' to escort one person back to the hag,"

"'S not like her to stir up a scene, though, didn't you notice the way I just _disappeared_ those two days? Actually, if she did it right, you probably didn't at first—she sweeps you up, Jack, 'n fast, like you never even existed to begin with. The deal was I kill you, or she kills me—you're still standin' here, so you know what that means for me. She didn't wanna start no scenes by havin' her lackeys drag me out for my execution—nah, that ain't quite her style. The reason we're all so fuckin' afraid of that bitch is because we don't know _shit_ about what it means for us if we gotta see her, so all we can hope is that we never _do_, right?! She don't want word gettin' out about how she's handlin' me, 'cause then we'll have an idea about how she operates. So the best way to avoid a scene is by causin' one, one that looks nice 'nd chaotic; an easy one to distract everyone with while she kills me 'nd blames my death on your team, callin' it a casualty,"

"Jesus, love," Jack runs a stressed hand through once combed hair that only grows more tangled and cluttered with the debris of warfare the longer the day goes on.

"I dunno what to do, Jack,"

"'S a tough call, mongrel—but me, you, Heinrich'nd Luc'll sort it out—"

"The fuck is that supposed t'mean?!"

"What else is it _s'pposed_ t'mean?! They're on their way here t'talk this over so we can make a plan on what t'do—"

"You said this was gonna be _our_ problem, Jack, you never fuckin' said _shit_ about bringin' him into this—!"

"Who, Luc?!"

"I ain't sayin' a word to that bastard—!"

"Somethin' tells me now might be the time t'put aside your fuckin' _daddy issues_, Scout—that man is your stepfather'nd he loves ya, 'nd there's no _way_ he's jus' gonna stand by 'nd watch all this happen!"

"Now ain't exactly the time to bring this shit up, _Jack_—"

"D'you _want_ t'die?! We're comin' t'gether for _you_, love! The three of us're breachin' contracts'nd regulations, meetin' here t'discuss how we're gonna keep _you_ alive! We're puttin' our _lives_ on the line—'nd all you can say is '_don't bring him along 'cause he made fun of my beaver teeth growin' up?!_'?! Grow the fuck up, Lawrence,"

"I didn't fuckin' _ask_ for your help, Jack! _You're the one volunteerin' 'em in this shit!_ You're makin' it sound like I _asked_ to get involved in all this—!"

"It doesn't matter whether you asked or not, the point is you _are_, 'nd we each care about ya to the point where we're willin' t'recognise that you aren't gonna be breathin' much longer if we don't get involved!"

"So what?! Let me fuckin' die, it ain't like I got _shit_ to even live for!"

"Y'serious?" Sniper scoffs, shaking his head incredulously.

"You're really gonna stand here, in _my_ van, lookin' at the very man who loves you more than _anythin'_ else in this goddamned world in the eye, 'nd tell him y'ain't got _shit_ worth gettin' up for in the mornin'?!"

Scout simply glares, completely frozen save the slight twitch of his mouth, which he struggles to hold in a thin, defiant and emotionless line.

"So I mean nothin' to ya, then?!" Sniper continues, and Scout finds it almost unnerving the way the typically collected Australian stands before him, nostrils flared, brow wrinkled in fury and eyes narrowed dangerously on his person, fists balled, his glare fundamentally murderous.

"_HUH_—?!"

Scout jumps not at the man's roar, but instead at the shattering smack of his glass ashtray against the wall beside him, Sniper having chucked it indiscriminately.

"It ain't my fuckin' fault you're so in love with me, I never forced you to obsess over me—you're fuckin' _desperate_, dude, just 'cause maybe I'm all _you_ have, that don't mean I'm as fuckin' fixated as you—!"

Scout is shocked that Sniper doesn't aim yet another particularly painful uppercut reminiscent of the one from a week ago in his direction, though his still bandaged nose leaves little for Sniper's fist to bloody this time around. Though as he breathes harshly through his teeth, awaiting Sniper's response whether it be in the form of physical release or not, he cannot say he feels any sympathy for the man who stands, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, trying desperately to subdue any desire to hit him Scout is sure he is doing a job to repress in this very moment.

"It's fuckin' _sad_, Jack—chasin' after dudes twelve years younger than you 'cause you've fucked up every chance for a normal relationship with other fags your own age—so _what_, no one wants ya Down Under so you obsess over me 'nd then it becomes my fault when you're riskin' your life 'cause you're so damn desperate?!"

Scout has no idea what it is that keeps him talking—maybe it was an anger spawning from a source he can't even _remember_had set him off so, maybe it was his own pride formulating the harshest words he can muster from within him, words he knows scrape and scathe at the man before him as if they were spoken by the Devil himself, iron hot and burning with as much contempt and disgust with which Scout can accent them.

"I wish you'd never fallen in love with me—then this shit never woulda fuckin' _happened_! If you'd just stayed the fuck away from me I wouldn't be dead because of your ass—!"

It becomes physically impossible for the young man to speak any further, for he finds that his cheeks and jaws are seized and braced under the strong hand of the calmly furious man. Scout can taste the salty dirt and dried sweat upon his fingers as in one swift motion Sniper collides his skull with the steel wall of the camper, a warm wave of heavy dampness trickling from the wound seconds after the impact.

Scout calls out the man's name pleadingly, yelping as his head collides against the wall again, and in a blackened flash of dizzy uprootal Scout slouches, leaning against the wall for support. His stomach lurches as the hand Sniper'd wrung behind the back of the Bostonian's head is covered in his own blood, the man actually _sobbing_, much to Scout's own surprise—three whole years, and never once in their relationship had he seen the man actually _cry_.

It's eerie, quiet, easily missable at that; the only reason Scout can decipher the short, inaudible gasps for what they are is because he knows him all so well. Scout's eyes shut instinctively as the Australian wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, shaking it with a sharp sprawling of his fingers to the side, miniscule drops of the young man's own blood colliding against the cheek from whom they originated.

The man ignores Scout, content instead with stalking his way with his long legs toward the kitchenette without another word. Lawrence, who is completely unsure as to what it is he should do _now_, rubs the back of his head softly, his lips twisting as his is once again reminded how the palm of his hand is coated in red. With a sharp turn around, he further observes his own blood stains the wall, hardening over as over time the air cracks its influence about the iron infused wetness, the blood chipping away in a sickly reminder of where his own mouth had a tendency to lead him.

He was certainly growing light headed, and Sniper's comforter was staining the longer Scout lied against it for the sake of its soft refuge. His mother had always warned him against falling asleep after head trauma, but, for the first time in his adult life, Scout discards the words of his mother in favour of his own intuition. The comfort of shut eyes grows more and more inviting the longer he holds them so, and the memory of his mother's doting words put him to sleep in their very reciprocal.

-

"_You're not takin' him from me—!_"

"_Please, Herr Sniper, put ze shotgun down!_"

Heinrich almost sounds tired, as if the request that the Australian place a firearm aimed at his body away is a commonly uttered one for the German man (it was). As Scout rolls his way out of the bed and takes a peek around the corner, he's met with the rather alarming sight of the two men standing in a camper whose ceiling is barely high enough to house them standing up at full height.

'_Thank God the Doc made it outta there alive._'

Instantly his brain rushes to form gruesome images in the form of potential fatalities on BLU's end. If these images were to have some basis in reality however Heinrich would either be tending to the dead or Scout would have heard of the death of a comrade by now; it would appear, based on Heinrich's coat being folded neatly (certainly the German's doing) into a dapper square upon the coffee table in the sitting room, that the man has been in the camper long enough to have told Scout of any bad news.

"I'll shoot your Goddamn brains out if you put a finger on 'im—"

"Ze junge is lying in a puddle of his own _blood_ on your _bed_, Herr Sniper, and zere is more blood to be seen upon your wall! It is I who should be shooting _you_—!"

"D'you think I'm fuckin' around, Doc?! 'E's not leavin' this camper!"

"Wiz your temper he is at greater risk staying wiz you zan he is in his base amongst his comrades! Ones who _also_ care about his vellbeing zat _aren't_ alvays injuring him, funnily enough!"

"You're gonna have t'kill me if ya want 'im, Doc, otherwise I'll kill _you_ if you make even a tiny move back t'that bed, dinky di—"

"Or vhy not vake Lawrence and have him decide vhere he should go for himself? He is a grown man capable of making his own decisions," Heinrich suggests calmly, Scout seeing this as a cue to rise, though his head pounds as he rests pressure on his feet. The two men turn to face him as he makes his way quietly into the sitting room, rubbing his head as each step causes it to well with a distinct pain that blinds patches of his vision the longer he strains to maintain it.

"Ach, Junge—easy, Jack," Medic warms, placing his hands in the air as Sniper brandishes the weapon in his direction as he goes to take his patient and comrade into a friendly hug. "Vat has happened to you?!" Heinrich asks breathlessly, Scout freezing instantly on the spot.

"I—I _fell_," he begins, swallowing harshly and nodding seconds later. "When we were runnin' back here—"

"Zere is no need to lie, Lawrence, zere is nozing to be afraid of—I do not zink ze Sniper is so _crazy_ zat he would shoot you over the truth!"

_'No, he's that fuckin' crazy,'_ Scout snaps internally, avoiding the Australian's eye. _'But shootin' me ain't exactly what would show for it.'_

"Look, your vounds have not even been properly treated!" Heinrich gasps, snatching a small medikit from off the glass coffee table, leading them both to sit on the floor whilst Heinrich tends to the now dried cut. "I knew I vasn't overreacting ven I zought to bring one along,"

"Lawrence," Sniper croaks, Scout's head instantly turning to face Sniper's at the start of his hoarse voice, though Heinrich instantly turns him to face the German once more, the tips of his fingers harsh against his chin.

"Face me, I am not finished," Heinrich mutters darkly, though Lawrence can tell by his disgruntled expression that the status of his treatment may have nothing to do with his distaste at Scout giving Sniper attention in reality.

"Quite a _fall_ you took, Lawrence, I vould zink a runner of your aptitude vould have abandoned tricky pairs of left feet _long_ago," he spits.

"Forget about it Doc, I already know what you're tryin' to say, but I ain't goin' with ya,"

"Lawrence, zis man is _abusing_ you!"

"He—he's not—look, just forget about it, alright?! I said some shit—I—I was askin' for it,"

"Clearly you are all _fucking_ insane, am I ze _only_ one who cares vezer zis boy lives or dies?!"

"I don't understand why you think Lawrence is gonna die with me, Doc—"

"_You are smashing his head into valls ven he says zings you do not like!_"

"Nah, Doc, really—I said some horrible shit, shit that—that I didn't mean—I didn't mean it, Jack!"

"Look, you have scared ze boy so severely he is _terrified_ zat you are still angry viz him!"

"I ain't leavin' him, Doc, now just fuckin' drop it!" Scout roars, both men taken aback at Scout's frustrated, raised voice. "You said you were gonna let me choose, and I choose Jack! I know you care, Doc, I know you're lookin' out for me! But—" Scout tapers off, Heinrich sighing after a few seconds of their locked gazes sink in. "_Fine_—I—I vill not attempt anyzing…" he rolls his eyes, teeth clenched angrily. "_Wahnsinnig, seid ihr; einfach wahnsinnig…_"

"Speak English, _Doc_,"

"YOU'RE BOTH NUTS! SIMPLY CRAZY! I CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE, ZE BACK AND FORZ, ZE ARGUING, ZE HITTING AND ZE SCREAMING AND ZE _FIGHTING_! I do not know vat vas said—knowing Lawrence it vas presumably somezing to do viz his stepfazer—"

"Bingo,"

"But zat you two find it at all appropriate to squabble and hit each ozer at a time like zis—it's puzzling, just _puzzling_…"

"It was my fault, Doc," Scout scratches behind his neck, a soft "ow," slipping through his lips, the general area still very tender. Scout didn't know _what_ it was that triggered the instant regret within him. Perhaps it was simple; that even after the words he'd said, Sniper still stood ready to defend his right to keep the young man by his side. Maybe it was how much he knew Sniper loved him, and how much he loved him in return. '_Who fuckin' knows—maybe the Doc is right and we are just fuckin' crazy…_'

"Doc, can I?" Scout asks quietly, but he doesn't wait for the man's response before standing up, taking Jack into a strong hug the two silently hold for a few awkward seconds on the doctor's end. "I'm sorry, Jack, I didn't mean none of it..."

It was honestly a perplexing case for the aging German; two men who fight to the point of physical abuse standing in each other's arms two hours after the fact. "_Wahnsinnig…_" he sighs again, looking up at the low rumble of Sniper's whisper in Scout's ear, the speech itself unintelligible to all but the two, though Scout nods after each sentence. "Vat in ze vorld did you say to him, Scout?"

"Forget about it, shit I don't mean,"

"Oi, now," Sniper growls as a knock sounds on the camper door, the man giving Scout a slight push back toward the sleeping room, taking his shotgun in hand.

"Get 'im back there, Doc, jus' in case it's someone we don't want stoppin' by..."

"You two are _completely_ insane—!" Heinrich hisses quickly as he corrals Scout toward the sleeping room, the young man obviously hesitant to leave Sniper by his lonesome to approach the visitor. They sit completely quiet and still behind the bedroom door, listening on the other side for the sound of conversation. "You just gonna keep sayin' that?!" Scout snaps back, pressed as close to the metal as possible. "'S probably Luc comin'," Scout grumbles indignantly, groaning as the camper door shuts and the muffled speech of the Frenchman floats its way about the camper.

"Lawrence _really_," Heinrich scolds, glaring at the young man over his glasses. Scout sighs, pulling the door back and rolling his eyes, entering the sitting room with his arms folded and eyes cast to the side. "Lawrence!" Luc exclaims, Scout taking a seat next to Sniper on the maroon shag, the two guests however content with standing.

"Yeah, hey," he grunts in response.

"Sorry I can't offer either of ya a right seat, mate,"

"No matter, I'm not 'ere for zhe sake of 'ospitality; _What is going on, Lawrence_?! You 'ave been disappearing, worrying Jack and zhe Doctor as well as _myself_, attempts on zhe _lives_ of Jack and myself 'ave been made by zhis _Dmitri_ outside of battle!" Luc wastes no time in seeking answers to his assuredly pressing questions, though Heinrich's wide eyed gasp is quick to interject as Lawrence opens his mouth.

"Vat?! Our Spy has been trying to kill you all again?!"

"Look, I—I swear I didn't mean for none of this to happen!" Scout please, eyes darting back between them all.

"No one's sayin' that, love, they just wanna know what _this_ is! The three of us've been workin' t'get to the bottom of everythin' ever since you disappeared the first time! "Nd we can't protect you unless we know what we're protectin' you_from_!"

"Who the _fuck_ said I needed protectin'?!"

"See why I hit'im, _Doc_?!"

"Jack, Lawrence, _please_," Luc sighs, lighting a much needed cigarette, ignoring Heinrich's groan and mumble about the habit being "unsanitary".

"'Ave I not told you already zat you must keep your temper wizh 'im?! Zhe boy never watches 'is mouzh—,

"This _boy_ is sittin' right here, you fuckin' prick, so if you've got somethin' t'say—"

"I do, Lawrence; as a matter of fact I _do_. Regardless of what or 'ow you may feel, I am 'ere, in zhis camper, for _you_. Zhis mess you've landed yourself in wizh Dmitri and Jack is none of my business, and none of my concern, but I am 'ere because I_love_ you, Lawrence," Luc spits at the quiet young man, who stares at the maroon shag, Sniper's hand running along Lawrence's shoulder sympathetically. "Before you say you did not _ask_ for me to be 'ere—"

"I _didn't_!"

"But know zhat I do not need your permission, Lawrence. I am willing to risk everyzhing for your safety, because I love you as my son. You may ask where is your fazher, Lawrence? Why is it zhat I am 'ere, despite everyzhing we 'ave been zhrough, and 'e is not?!"

"Now's not the time, mate," Sniper tightens his grip around Lawrence, whose anger he can physically _feel_ as it staggers at the mention of his biological father.

"Au contraire, Jack, now is zhe _only_ time; if all goes according to plan zhen I, along with all of you, 'ave zhe potential to _die_wizhin the next forty eight 'our period. Be zhis zhe case, I'd like to get a few zhings off my chest," Luc explains coolly, his eyes not letting up from those of his stepson all the while.

"Is this all you came for then, Luc? To _get shit off your chest?!_" Lawrence spits.

"You blame me for your misery and for ruining your child'ood and driving zhe man away, but I _saved_ you from 'is cruelty, Lawrence—'e would not be 'ere for you in zhis moment like myself—"

"Don't you DARE talk about my father that way!"

"Where is 'e zhen, Lawrence?! You 'ave been calling for 'im for years, and yet 'e 'as not come, non?!"

"Luc, seriously mate, can we _please_ pick another time for this?!"

"You are not zhe only one who loves 'im, Jack," Luc hisses, Heinrich clearing his throat and picking at his trousers.

"Zhis man is literally leading you to your _deazh_—"

"Don't you fuckin' round on Jack either, Luc! You all keep sayin' that, like Jack wants me dead!"

"Jack _'imself_ 'as been warning you of zhis for _two years_, 'e 'as warned you zhat loving 'im would only lead to you facing zhe potential of losing your life,"

"So _what_, Luc, I'm ok with dyin'!"

"And yet would you claim zhat Jack _loves_ you?!"

"You implyin' I don't love Lawrence, mate?! 'Cause I reckon you're gonna have _both_ our fists shuttin' your trap if you don't close it yourself—"

"Jack is your assassin, Lawrence, be it zhrough RED, or your friendship leading you to deazh zhrough zhe Administrator—and yet is 'e not zhe one who loves you more zhan anyone possibly could?! 'E just cracked your damn _'ead_ open, for God's Sake!"

"Exactly vat I am saying!" Heinrich pops up hesitantly.

"And yet you believe 'im when 'e says 'e loves you! Why do you not believe me?!"

Lawrence blanches.

"Per'aps it is a recurring zheme in your life, Lawrence, zhat zhe ones who 'urt you most are zhe ones zhat _love_ you just as much,"

"So what," Scout snaps. "_So what—_"

"I know you may not want to 'ear it, Lawrence, but your fazher abused your mozher and your two eldest brozhers on a daily basis—"

"_So what—_"

"Your mozher confided in me at a time in 'er life when zhe one meant to be 'er ozher 'alf was zhe very one tearing zhe whole of 'er down—"

"_SO WHAT LUC?!_" Scout shouts, rising swiftly to his feet and challenging his stepfather aggressively. "WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH WHAT YOU STILL DID TO MY FAMILY?!"

"If zhe man 'ad stayed in your life 'e too would 'ave 'urt you zhe same way,"

"But what difference does it fuckin' make, Luc, you hit me too! You fuckin' hit me too!"

"And for zhat I am sorry, Lawrence, I truly am—I regret it everyday,"

Lawrence swallows heavily.

"And 'as your fazher apologised for _leaving_ you?! For 'urting your mozher and Alex and Christopher?! Did your fazher ever say zhat 'e loved you when 'e even _was_ around?!"

"So what, you think you're better than him?!"

"I want to make zhings right wizh you, because you're my son! If I should die for you zhen I want you to 'ave 'eard me tell you whezher you believe zhe intent of my words to be true or not! Your fazher went to 'is grave owing you an apology, Lawrence,"

"What do you mean his _grave_...?" Scout's voice drops, his eyes wide as they focus on the Frenchman's face, unblinking.

"Zhe man's been dead for five years, Lawrence, 'e drowned 'imself in zhe Boston 'arbour,"

Scout says nothing, but instead rests his head in his hands, silent for a solid two minutes, after which Luc clears his throat, meaning to speaking further. "I'm sorry, I really am—"

"_WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?!_"

"As if you ever would 'ave given me long enough to even tell you!"

"NO FUNERAL?! MY DAD JUST—JUST _DIES_, AND NO ONE THINKS TO—"

"Your mozher and I didn't know what to _do_, Lawrence, we didn't know 'ow or when to tell you, we didn't want to 'urt you! Lawrence, please, I can understand if you never forgive me, or if you never see me as a fazher, but all I can ask is zhat you accept my 'elp. I want to see you and Jack make it out of everyzhing alive and well enough to look past all zhis wizh each ozher if no one else. So please, quit acting up and accept my involvement for what it is. Losing tempers and 'olding grudges will only distact you from zhe love you two 'ave for each ozher, zhe only zhing zhat gets you zhrough zhis! Just tell me please what is going on!"

"You think it's just that easy?! That you can just—show up now, after fifteen _years_ of hurtin' me and expect me to forget it all?"

"Consider my involvement to 'elp you and Jack escape as a _start_, Lawrence..."

"C'mon, Larry, we've'nt got much time t'fill them in," Jack adds quietly.

"We can continue zhis conversation later, when zhe order on your head is no longer an issue," Luc presses calmly.

"...Remember in March how we had that leave?" Scout croaks, eyes on the floor.

"...Well me'nd Jack got back to the base kinda—kinda early—" Scout stutters, neither him nor Luc wanting to mention Christopher and his outburst outright.

"'Nd we thought we were the only ones around, right?! And I was with Heinrich, tellin' him about some stuff that happened with me and Jack,"

"Oh dear," Luc sighs.

"Well Dmitri musta been slitherin' around listenin'—now keep in mind I always thought the dude was a bit of a creep—you fuckin' Spies are some weird ass fuckers—but he tried to say he'd tell the Administrator I was with Jack if I didn't pay him to hush it up,"

"Merde,"

"So I paid, right? Wasn't no problem until about three weeks ago when I couldn't pay no more, we ain't had hardly any missions in July, 'nd so dude decided he was gonna pretend to be Jack 'nd photograph—y'know—"

"Spare me please—_compromising photos_—" Luc closes his eyes and holds up his hand.

"'Nd he said if I didn't come up with five hundred bucks by the end of the week, he'd show 'em to the Administrator! Well, I—I couldn't—"

"Why didn't you _ask one of us for zhe cash?!_"

"Look, Jack already chewed me out about it, alright?!"

"'Nd rightly so," Jack adds.

"I don't wanna fuckin' hear it—so he took 'em down to 'er and so I got picked up, 'nd I met the bitch—meetin' took two damn days, 'nd she was talkin' 'bout how apparently I'm her best mercenary 'nd that killin' or lettin' me or go would be a waste—so she tells me to kill Jack to prove my loyalty—said if I couldn't do it, she'd kill me 'cause she can't have disloyal clients runnin' around—so I—I couldn't do it, 'nd I know she knows I didn't so I hid, 'cause I knew she'd be after me!"

Heinrich simply rests his face in his hands; Luc, who shakes his own head solemnly, exhales before a tired "So let me get zhis straight," escapes his lips alongside a barrage of heavy smoke. "Zhe Administrator wants you dead because of your insubordinate relationship wizh Jack, your enemy?"

"Kinda—Dmitri's after me 'cause he wants his money, and the Administrator wants me 'cause I didn't kill Jack, but I mean, yeah, she's pissed 'cause we're together,"

"Funny, I remember Jack saying 'er finding out would prove to incite conflict,;"

"You don't sound all that damn worried that I'm gonna fuckin' _die_!"

"It is because I know you are in good 'ands—Jack, 'Einrich, nor myself shall let you die,"

"Thanks Luc..." he whispers, though he picks at the carpet as he, for once in his life, shows gratitude on the Frenchman's behalf. "All of ya..."

"So now vat?" Heinrich asks quietly, looking at the others.

"Well, Scout told me that battle was started by the Administrator so her men could slip in 'nd take Scout without anyone noticin'. Seems to me she wants 'im back, but like Hell she's gettin' 'er hands on 'im! I figured we'd just hide out here—"

"Are you kidding, Jack? 'Ere is probably zhe _first_ place she would look if trying to locate 'er person of interest! You two are in love and you are _very_ protective of 'im, of _course_ she would zhink to check your damn _van_, and frankly you are lucky 'er men 'ave not already stopped _by_,"

Jack reddens, mumbling and scratching at his arm. "Bozh of you need to get out of 'ere, Jack—your lives are in danger, and I know for a _fact_ zhat she will also want you to speak for yourself while she 'as Scout in her clutches,"

"He's right, it is not safe here—_anyvere_ she could associate you two,"

"So then, _what_, we just…" Scout shrugs, stumbling on the words.

"…_Run_?"

"As far away as possible, and do not take zhe camper wizh you—take _nozhing_ wizh you, just get out and go!"

"W-when?!"

"Now, preferably, zhe black cars of zhe Administrator are still parked outside of BLU—zhankfully zhe camper already rests on zhe edge of zhe 'Fort, leaving zhe perimeters should not be difficult,"

"Oh God..." Scout shakes his head, chewing nervously on his bottom lip.

"I vill do my best to buy you all time, saying I found you dead," Heinrich nods, Scout jumping at Luc's shout of "Yes!"

"We can claim you bozh to 'ave been found dead,"

"Yeah, but she ain't gonna buy it forever,"

"Long enough to get you two avay from her," Heinrich nods.

"And if she hurts you guys for spreadin' lies 'nd conspirin' to help us?!"

"Hm—I am a Spy, I am quite good at making a getaway should it get to zhat point, Lawrence—zhe Doc I would assume would take Mikhail and zhe two would run as well?"

"Hm, I imagine so,"

"Well ain't that right touchin', didn't know you two cared so much! Really tho', always said a nice mutiny 'gainst the old bat wouldn't be such a bad thing, maybe we should _all_ run," Jack scoffs, Luc crushing the butt of his cigarette and raising an eyebrow. "I'd razher you two get a 'eadstart."


	33. Debauchery and Its Revelation

Sweat pools sickeningly in the conjoined, basin like palms of the two runaways, droplets of the mineral infused excretion slipping through their sliding hands like rain off the surface of a recently waxed car. Scout's heavy breath dries out his parched throat with each oral intake along with a piercing scratch that only serves to further remind him of the considerable distance put between themselves and the camper, and how much farther they still had left to go as per Luc's suggestion of where somewhere _safe_ would be for now.

Had Scout the physical ability to speak after a whole ten minutes of dragging Sniper's weight behind him, he'd bark for the man to _hurry up_; the words would sound harsh, impatient, perhaps just slightly hysterical, but whilst engaged in a literal flight for their _lives_, Scout can't exactly pretend sugar coating the command would inspire the Australian to run any faster.

_Sniper_ wasn't the one to blame; though fit, the man was not used to relying on speed to save his life, whereas for Scout his sprint was the only thing _keeping_ him so during missions. Scout certainly couldn't fault him, at that; the end of July certainly wasn't an ideal time for which the survival of their lives should call for running either.

"Jack, _please_!" Scout growls as Sniper allows his upper body to flop strengthlessly like a marionette with suddenly severed strings, hands on his thighs as his chest makes great, laborious heaves in an effort to slow down his heart with deep gusts of breath. Scout would explain away his frustration with the excuse that he didn't _mean_ the angered tone behind his words if taking the time to open his mouth didn't steal away seconds crucial to their successful escape. As he looks the man in the eye and laces their hands in a grip tense with renewed fervor, he wrenches Sniper forward, jumpstarting him into yet another taxing run.

'_Maybe the mongrel's on t'somethin', sayin' thirty seven's gettin' up there…_' Sniper groans mentally, his body aching as the sensors of pain that were dulled just seconds ago by the adrenaline of their getaway cool down.

"Oi—y'reckon—this—is the place—Luc was—talkin' about?!" Sniper manages to gasp as he leans against the dried wall of the shoddy abandoned barn they'd managed to make it to for support. Scout's lips twist as he deciphers the Australian's question to be not an inquiry but rather a desperate statement of what he hopes Scout plans to confirm with the affirmative.

'_How many other barns do you see 'round here?!_' Scout snaps internally, irritated at Sniper's display of optimism. The young man responds with a succinct nod before pushing on the splintered door without further ado.

The relief of the twenty five degree drop in temperature within the complete darkness of the barn's inside settles and cools Scout's sweat soaked skin, the humid shroud running had conjured morphing into a chilling coat draped across his overheated body. Despite the ideal, arid and temperate climate within the structure, Scout can't say the powerful smell of rotten hay and rat droppings doesn't overpower him; who knew how long the vermin had used the softened earth and beams of the old farmhouse as a place of relief, but he was certain a smarter man than him could date the history by the smell alone. The rancid hay, judging by its rigid unbreakability despite the weight of their bottoms against it, must have spent countless cycles of seasons drenched with rainwater only to be cruely overdried once summer made its return, hardened into resilient fossils of once healthy chew turned grey mass.

The roof, much to Scout's surprise, has managed to hold up without gaps or recesses sprinkled about like lumbered swiss cheese and leaving the architecture completely vulnerable and exposed to the earth and its natural occurrences. The brittle walls, on the other hand, through which the rain water must have spent the last few years seeping, prove to not be so headstrong against the forceful barrage of time. Splintered and completely stripped of the healthy dark brown it must've been during the days of its origin, Scout jumps as Sniper rests his side against the bloated planks of shoddy, paring wood, fearful that the entirety of the barn would collapse within itself like a hollowed sidewalk unable to withstand its own mass.

Instead he sighs anticlimactically as nothing happens, Sniper shutting his eyes and allowing his body to rest. Scout sits still, wary of startling any other critters that still reside and take refuge in the barn along with them.

"Bloody _Hell_, 's hot out there…thought I wasn't gonna make it…" Sniper gasps, swiping his hat from the top of his head and fanning himself with it, breathing heavily through his mouth. "Come over here, love, 's no need for you t'be sittin' in a nest o'rat poo…" Sniper grunts, pulling Scout into his lap, his sweat drenched arms wrapping around him so as to hold him up properly.

"It'll be 'lright—'s nothin' t'worry about…we're gonna get through this…" Sniper whispers, his breath now even paced thanks to the three minutes of rest. Scout frowns, doing his best to conceal inconsolably hysterical voices and thoughts that raced in his mind, deep below the exterior of his calm flesh. Though as he twists his neck, catching sight of the Australian's shadowed lips and their slight movements and the mumbles they produce, Scout wonders if the genlte words and their prayer like repetition are actually truly meant for the assurance of the man's own restless soul.

Scout, for whom words simply refuse to come as if the fear stockpiled a verbal dam just behind his lips, rests his head against the older man's shoulder, Sniper's arms constricting tighter against his waist, Scout's tighter against his neck.

"Surprised you're not cryin'," Sniper teases blandly, his voice muffled, for he essentially speaks into Scout's collarbone, his head tucked comfortably against his body.

Maybe the residual drain of the heat's effect is what stops him from replying, maybe it's the same blockade of verbal expression plaguing him from before.

"How long's 'e gonna be with the damn _van_, 'd be suicide for us t'just sit here 'nd bake inside this smelly old thing…"

The same _smelly old thing_ was the _only_ "thing" separating them from ultimate capture and surrender to the Administrator and her personal forces, Scout reasons internally; perhaps the reason why Scout is not so quick to scoff at the admittedly rank barn as Sniper swears _yet again_ over the smell, is because its role in their survival outweighs any sort of unpleasant _scent_ in his eyes (or nose, more like).

"I know 'e said it was off 'er bounds, but I'm not jus' gonna wait here for her men t'come knockin'…"

_'And where else do we have to go, Snipes?!'_ Scout muses further, though he can't help but feel there was validity behind Jack's indignant commentary; it did seem foolish to wait in a flimsy shack for Luc's cue, even with the Frenchman's assurance that the barn and surrounding fields lay just outside of the perimeters the woman's monitors observed. It felt to Scout like the very first place she would have them look…

"He ain't gonna be much longer, Jack," Scout sighs, narrowing his eyes, his focus honing in on the small slivers of thankfully barren land he can see through the planks. "Luc ain't just gonna leave us hangin'."

"Hmph—prolly kills ya t'even speak the man's name,"

"Ijust can't believe he never told me about Dad..."

"Scout, I know it's hard, 'nd I'm right proud o'ya for handlin' it like ya are; try t'put it out your mind for now 'nd we'll call your Mum as soon as things settle down..."

"Why didn't they ever _tell_ me?!"

"_Well_..." Sniper clears his throat, thankful the small gaps in the wood filter selective slivers of light, the Australian leaning further back to further shroud himself in black completely, hiding the nebbish twitches of his thin lips. "No offense, love..."

"What..."

"You could hardly handle it when the bloke pulled up a chair next to ya at the kitchen table as it was, I imagine he was only puttin' two 'nd two togetha when he assumed _maybe_ news o'your pop drownin' 'imself after the years o'abuse he put your mum under wouldn't quite settle right, 'specially not comin' from him..."

"Ma coulda told me, or one o'my brothers, or _somebody_!"

"You woulda discarded it, thinkin' it was a trick t'get ya t'grow a bit more sensitive o'Luc, 's prolly where they're comin' from..."

"I ain't a kid, I coulda handled the truth..."

Again Sniper can only release a quick, shallow tisk of air Scout easily deciphers as meaning "_I dunno..._", the silence between them amplifying the muculent slide of saliva travelling down his esophagus in a hesitant swallow.

"Y'really couldn't have, 'nd you know it, Lawrence; you're barely handlin' it _now_, I can feel it on ya, the way you're shakin',"

"But I ain't..."

"I feel it…they're slight, but I feel it..."

"Why didn't anyone tell me..."

"The only reason you were told _now_'s 'cause Luc knew y'wouldn't've put your feelin's aside otherwise…so please, _please_ let it go, take his help for now…if not outta forgiveness t'him then _please_ for me, love..."

"Yeah, well, it's huge what he's doin' for us…"

"Huge doesn't even begin t'explain it, love—if that Dead whatsit of his goes wrong, 'e's gonna get suckered into all this too—'s a big risk for him, but I know he'd do anything' for you, Lawrence, he'd do anythin' for all of ya…"

"Yeah, well, you make it sound like he don't care about _you_—I doubt he's doin' all this shit just for me…" Scout argues quickly, the thought of Luc risking his life on his behalf filling him with affectionate disgust and an unsettling guilt he'd always been plagued with whenever Luc had done something inarguably "_nice_" for him, his stepson—something Scout couldn't dismiss away with the venomous temper and threats of skull cracking as usual.

"We're colleagues, love—sure, we've always been friendly with each other, 's always been a gentleman t'me, even when I first arrived at the 'Fort ten years ago—but outside o'pointless chit chat 'nd mission related stuff we never really had a reason to talk 'til I got involved with _you_—though y'know, he showed me pictures of you once, now that I remember,"

"_What_?!"

"Was a smokin' break, or a mission briefin', somethin'—'nd the bloke just came at me all _miserable_, talkin' 'bout he'd just gotten news that his stepson was bein' deployed out here—'course I'm not gonna lie, love, I was barely listenin', but he sure did, he showed me what musta been a school picture—"

"Fuck, was it the one with—"

"You smilin' like a dope at the camera with that _ridiculous_ red bow tie 'nd those little teeth?"

"_Fuck Luc_, I told him _and_ Ma to burn that shit, figures he'd just keep it in his wallet and _show it to people_…"

"I told ya I was hardly payin' attention,"

"Obviously you remembered it well enough to tell me I looked like a fuckin' _goon_…"

"Didn't stop me from fallin' for ya, did it? But I tell ya if I'd known I'd be sittin' with the boy in that picture in my arms, fleein' for our lives t'gether four years later, I woulda paid 'im a bit more mind…" Sniper chuckles disbelievingly, sighing heavily. "Funny the way life works, eh…?"

"_Yeah…_"

"But it's nothin' t'worry about, love—Luc'll be here with the van pretty soon, 'nd before you know it we'll be gone with just us like y'wanted—'cept, y'know, the van…"

Scout frowns, patting Jack on the cheek, the palm of his hand prickling as his unshaved jaw scratches along his flesh. He could tell choosing between his own life and the van was proving to be a feat of a decision for the Australian.

"But it gives us a chance to breathe, you know? We're gonna get out, be on the lam for a bit, and that's gonna suck some dick, but at least we'll be alive, right?"

"Since when did _you_ start talkin' sense?!" Sniper chuckles, Scout wincing as the man brings his hand to wrap behind Scout's head, the impact of it against the tender wound from yesterday causing him to groan softly, his eyes closing from lightheadedness.

"Sorry, love…" he apologises quickly, clearing his throat sheepishly.

"Naw, Jack, you ain't gotta be sorry, I deserved it…"

"Your Doc's right, I'm—I'm always hurtin' ya…"

"And both times I shouldn'ta ever said that shit, wombat; I was mad, and you were too…"

"Still, love—I never should've hit ya…" Sniper sighs, tugging at the bandages plastered around Scout's nose. "I reckon these can come off right about now…"

Scout wrinkles his cheeks and the tip of his nose gingerly, thankful that the motions do not elicit any twinges of pain or discomfort.

"Looks right…your Doc really is good 'bout patchin' you up—that medigun o'his really does put y'back t'gether nicely…"

"So no scars or nothin'?"

"Nope…not a one…" Sniper twists Scout's head to the left and right very gently, running his finger along the bridge of the young man's nose.

"Feels straight…I'm so sorry, love…"

"Stop sayin' sorry, Jack, I'm serious; I told you I deserved it,"

"Bullshit, y'don't deserve t'get your _head cracked open…_"

"'Nd I shoulda never said that shit, okay?! Now will you just drop it?! I dunno how long it's gonna take you to get that it ain't no big deal, wombat, 'specially not compared to the rest of this shit goin' on,"

"Well I love you, no matter what—don't you ever forget tha—"

Scout's hand flies to cover Sniper's thin lips, the two frozen still as the sound of an approaching vehicle makes its way across the fields. The crops of vegetation whose stalks Scout had held to be resilient, crash to the ground in powerful droves, as if bowing before the presence that uproots them.

"Sounds like your van, don't it, Jack—" Scout pipes up, Sniper's hand pulling him back forcefully by the back of his shirt as he attempts to make way toward the door.

"Lawrence, you idiot, don't you _dare_ jus' go rushin' out there like that! How d'you know the old bat hasn't got one o'her men in the driver's seat?! Might not be Luc love, but jus' her tryin' to lure us out! Y'gotta be way more careful…" Sniper growls, plucking Scout off his lap, the two standing quickly as the vehicle grows louder.

"Hide, Lawrence!" Sniper hisses, leading him into a completely darkened corner, placing him so he falls against the hay, concealed almost entirely.

"Stay here, love, 'nd don't you make a _sound_; I don't care _what_ happens, you do _not_ move from this spot, d'you hear me?! You're not here; I'll tell 'em I'm hidin' out here 'cause I heard you were tryin' to kill me—'nd I'll be damned if you do or say otherwise,"

Scout nods quickly, Sniper's glare and tone taking any sort of desire to argue the contrary from the suddenly obedient young man. The weight in his heart lessens as Sniper takes the hilt of his kukri into his hand, Scout thankful he at least takes means to defend himself with him. As Sniper approaches the door to the barn with silent caution whilst light footsteps thump against the ground on the other side, Scout can barely stopper his breath in his own throat.

Their visitor mustn't want to alert them of their existence as well, for they are careful not to vocalize their presence—Scout doesn't even have _that_ much to go off of, a voice to determine whether the one on the other side meant harm or not...

"Jack, do you—"

"_Shut your bloody mouth, love_!" he snaps quickly, and Scout, who lowers himself into the rancid, rotten feed, forces himself not to wretch and gag as droppings roll about too close to his open mouth. Regardless of the nature of his surroundings, he cannot shake away the knowledge of having heard fear in the Australian's croaked whisper of a voice.

He doesn't shake, nor does he visibly hesitate, Scout notes, and for that he is particularly thankful, that Sniper does not stagger or falter below emotion in his stance. He hunches slightly, out of the door's reach should it swing open aggressively, though close enough so one of the man's violent stabs and swipes should halt any intrusive attackers. Despite his promise however, it's all the Bostonian can do to just _sit_ there as instructed, his hand cramping and throbbing as it wraps tightly against his bat.

It all happens in one swift motion; Sniper swings open the barn door with a sudden force that even Scout jumps, the fabric of Luc's front caught and steeled under the grip of Sniper's powerful fist, the equally tall man being dragged off his feet. Their foreheads touch as the Australian's eyes bore into those of his alleged comrade, Sniper's breaths hostile, even, and weighted.

"An innocent man who 'as nozhing to 'ide would not answer zhe door in such a way, Jack!" Luc chuckles nervously, falling to his feet and placing a gloved hand on his chest, taking a few steps back from the man and his knife.

"How the fuck do you know he's ain't a Spy, Jack?!" Scout cries, arising from the mount of feces and straw.

"I thought I told you t'keep your arse down—!"

"Calm down, Lawrence—Jack and I discovered some days ago zhat zhe disguises we spies 'ave been relying on do operate on faulty technology; you see, zhe PDA disguises, we've always 'eld to be state of zhe art! Zhough zhanks to zhe watchful eyes of your favourite Sniper, we 'ave discovered zhat zhere is indeed a flaw, and namely zhat it disguises all but zhe eyes,"

"Did it really take six thousand words t'say you can tell if a bloke is a fake or not by the eyes?!" Sniper snaps, peeking his head out from the frame of the door and checking for unwanted stragglers in Luc's wake.

"'Nd where's my van—?!"

"Don't worry, Lawrence, zhere is no need to observe me so—your Jack made sure I am zhe real Luc, he looked right into my eyes—your van is parked a little ways away—" Luc adds dismissively, smirking at the instantaneous rise he flares from within Sniper, the man defensive as if the fate of his firstborn were the topic of discussion and not an automobile.

"'Nd what's goin' on?! Did she buy it?!"

"Patience, please—can we not get _inside zhe van_ before answering questions?!" Luc begs, making a gesturing motion for the two to follow him.

"Inside?! Y'mean you've still got 'er?!"

"Of _course_, Jack, zhe plan was to get you two out of state, was it not?! What am I going to do, carry you two on my back?!"

"Oi, y'said there was a possibility y'wouldn't have time t'get bring 'er with ya—"

"Zhankfully zhis was not zhe case," Luc grunts, climbing into the driver's seat of the Australian's home of eighteen years.

"You sure it's a good idea for all three of us to sit up in the van?! I'd think the camper would be safer for me and Jack, that way we ain't just cruisin' down the highway in plain sight," Scout snaps, though he puts up no fight to Sniper pushing him into the seat and buckling him accordingly.

"It would take too much time for us t'bail out of the camper, love," Sniper grunts, closing the passenger side door, taking his rifle into his arms.

"Whoa _fuck_, why is he holdin' his rifle?! And why the fuck're we gonna _bail out_—?!"

"Just a precaution, Lawrence, a wanted boy of your caliber best be prepared for unanticipated showdowns and emergency getaways and departures—When was zhe last time you wiped down zhe dashboard, Jack?! It's filzhy,"

"Get _bloody goin'_, mate!" he shouts, looking into the side mirrors to make sure no one trails them. Luc grimaces as he allows the tips of his fingers to twist the key in the ignition, his hands hovering above the steering wheel as if the contraption were disease ridden, pulsating with noxious infections.

Sniper grimaces as the machine to his beloved van whirrs and rolls in violent, overworked revolutions, black smoke clouding behind them as the vehicle makes a vicious jumpstart, the tires screeching as they propel forward.

"Careful now, don't melt the damn tires down!" Sniper snaps, Scout sandwiched in between the two men. Luc, Scout notes, is a highly reckless driver he'd rather _not_ be in control of the steering wheel; corn stalks slope the width of the windshield as he tears down whole fields indiscriminately that have the unfortunate honour of lying in the van's path.

"Oh, please! Zhe entire Administration is after you bozh, but God forbid I _rev your engine!_" Luc snaps, Scout emitting a brief, hysterical chuckle as the Frenchman bothers to turn on his blinker, the van bouncing feverishly as it hits the asphalt of the two lane highway, surrounded by badlands and plateaus.

"Not sure that was the best exit, Luc, her men're gonna notice a path about the width o'this thing tearin' through the fields,"

"It is no longer a question of delicacy but of _time_, Jack—"

"Bailin' out, huh?!" Scout gulps, the jagged edges of the various rocks and boulders that align the side of the road far from anything Scout finds he could ever willingly roll onto whether his life called for it or not. "Shit, man, you're almost goin' a hundred! I can't just bail out goin' like a fuckin' racecar—!"

"Honestly, Luc, I know we prolly burned some bridges, but what the Hell'd you do back there that y'need ninety miles between us'nd the 'Fort in less than an hour?!"

"Ugh—would you two _razher_ I drive like your grandmozhers taking you to Sunday School?!" the man shouts, the engine overheating and roaring as the speed takes its toll on the twenty year old camper and its mechanics.

"Y'can't keep drivin' like this forever, she'll give out, 'nd a sherrif'll prolly stop us before then!"

"You say zhat as if you 'ave not outrun zhe police in zhe van in zhe past!"

"Oi, I earned myself a bit of a record 'cause of that mess, I'd rather not have it slowin' us down if we're caught speedin' again!"

"I suppose it would be embarrassing if zhe Administrator 'ad to pick you two up from jail, non?"

"_We two_?! Judgin' by the fact we're goin' fifty miles over the speed limit, I get the feelin' you did somethin' back there that might land _you_ in the cell next door, mate!"

"Besides feigning zhe deazhs and conspiring to assist in zhe escape of two of zhe Administrator's most wanted men, I've done nozhing wrong! And certainly nozhing we did not discuss already! I took out zhe Dead Ringer, disguised as you bozh seperately, producing two dead bodies—_zhat_ all went accordingly—naturally zhe Administrator was alerted by bozh the killfeed and zhe absolute _chaos_ zhat broke out on base once word of your deazhs got out—"

"Well 's nice t'know they all cared!"

"Zhe disorganization made it much easier for you bozh to leave zhe base quickly and wizhout interruption—wizhout the unsolicited madness from bozh sides, she most certainly would 'ave watched zhe monitors for your potential escape as opposed to focusing 'er attention on zhe conflict—not to mention zhere was no doubt she wanted to investigate zhe matter once she 'eard you were bozh claimed to 'ave been found dead,"

"'nd Heinrich?!"

"I never knew 'e was such a good actor—zhe good man can produce fake tears like a star—after rallying zhe attention of bozh sides wizh a most _amazing_ breakdown, cuddling _your_ body, might I mention, Lawrence—'e took bozh your "corpses" down to zhe medibay for an autopsy. Zhough of course zhe men of zhe Administrator 'ad stepped in by zhis point—it was zhe only zhing to settle everyone; no one moved a muscle while zhey spoke quietly wizh zhe doctor. It was zhen 'E gave me zhe signal to go and get zhe van and find you two at zhe barn like we'd discussed,"

"You coulda picked a better spot, you fuckin' asshole, there was rat shit everywhere!"

"Oi, ten minutes ago you were talkin' 'bout 'countin' blessings 'nd bein' all rational!"

"je suis désolé, next time I am posing to be dead versions of you and your boyfriend I'll be sure to book you a room in a five star 'otel during zhe wait," Luc snaps sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"So then is'e 'lright?!"

"Who, 'Einrich? 'E seemed to be just fine—everyzhing did, for zhat matter—I was not expecting it all to run so smoozhly myself,"

"So you were expectin' it to fuck up?! Pessimistic bastard,"

"I am simply _used_ to it all '_fucking up_',"

"So what?! Did the bat's men follow 'im into the bay?!"

"I imagine so, Jack, zhough I cannot say I know for sure—I was already at zhe camper as soon as 'Einrich gave me zhe okay,"

"So then what's the plan, dude?!"

"Well, I get you bozh away from 2Fort, first and foremost; Teufort zhe city would be a most stupid place for you two to 'ide, zhough I must admit she would be 'esitant to cause a scene in front of civilians she is trying to win over…"

"Win 'em over?! She don't give a shit about none of 'em, Luc, when I was there I saw her plans to start drillin' out the city for oil—us bein' there would _prolly_ just give her a reason to finally put the city on lockdown 'nd invade with her dudes like she's been wantin' to for years,"

"…well I suppose zhat idea can be scratched; and residing in zhe camper would be suicide—all it would take is for zhe Administrator to issue a warrant for zhe ve'icle to zhe auzhorities 'nd you'd be back in 'er clutches,"

"So then when y'let us out, 's gonna be the last time I see'er then, eh?" Sniper chokes, giving the dashboard a tender stroke.

"I'm sorry to say, Jack,"

"'Nd what're y'gonna do?!"

"_Do_?!"

"You _know_ what I mean, Luc!"

"Well, I zhought it would be best if I spared you any details,"

"Don't tell me y're gonna torch 'er!"

"Would you razher it be zhe _van_ or zhe two of _you_, Jack?!" Luc snaps, the Australian stony faced, silent for the next ten minutes.

"Y'know, I've been thinkin'; it ain't like they're gonna believe we're dead forever—they're gonna figure out at some point that the bodies were just decoys, Luc, especially when they see us missin' with the van, you included; 's all gonna seem a bit too convenient,"

"You underestimate my reputation as a Spy if you do not know I know zhis, Lawrence," Luc snaps through gritted teeth. "Claiming you bozh to be dead was never meant to be anyzhing _ozher_ zhan a getaway of convenience—nozhing more zhan a diversion. It seems to me _you_ were zhe one 'oping it would double as a permanent alibi, judging by your shock at zhe possibility of bailing out,"

"So then where're you gonna drop us, dude?!"

"As far away as possible,"

"And then?!"

"You two already know to take very little wizh you,"

"I'm not leavin' my rifle, mate—"

"Calm down, Jack, I never expected you too—Lawrence ought to take a pistol as well—per'aps some clozhing, money, ozherwise nozhing else,"

"'Nd where're we gonna stay?!"

"Hmph—I'm afraid zhat is for you all to decide—and for zhe sake of our safety, probably better if you do not tell me,"

"And what if you and the Doc're gonna have to run?!"

"I'm sure zhat 'Einrich and 'is 'Eavy will run togezher—I will not be going back to Boston, it would be much too obvious, and I would never endanger your mozher,"

"Oh God, Ma!"

"She will be alright, it would be 'er worrying about _you_ if she knew,"

"So what, do you think we're gonna be on the run for the rest of our lives?!"

"We'll be on the run t'gether at the very least, love," Sniper assures him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "Don't be scared…"

"Dude, I'm fuckin' _terrified_!" Scout wails, the level headed approaches and musings he'd repeated mentally in the barn shriveling like cracked, decrepit snake skin, coiling smaller and smaller into themselves until a slight panic is all that remains of them. "For real, I can't take none of this shit—!"

"For you claiming to be 'terrified', I must say you are taking it very well, Lawrence; I'm quite surprised myself,"

"Well now's not the time t'cry or break shit, I think he realizes that,"

"But to repress it and pretend like it isn't 'appening?!"

"Bingo,"

"I don't believe it…I just don't fuckin' believe it…"

"I know, love, but 's nothin' we can't handle—'s not like we don't deal with death every day…"

"Not like this! I ain't ever gonna see Ma or my brothers again…"

"Don't talk like that, Lawrence, y'never know! At least y'made it out of the base at all, right?! 'S better off than you bein' dead!"

"You two are togezher, Lawrence, zhat much you should be zhankful for,"

"Oi, I'm _actually_ half tempted t'shoot myself in the head if it keeps him alive—"

"DUDE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Alright, Good Lord…" Sniper grunts.

"Well at zhe very least you know Scout wants you alive…" Luc attempts to joke, though he clears his throat and diverts his attention back onto the road as a quick glance in their direction rewards him with a view of Scout wrapped in his arms, the two talking in hushed voices about something or other, most likely their fates and how to best accept them.

It was strange to see the young man Luc'd only known to be ornery and highly difficult so in _love_, with romantic arms enveloped around his frame, the one to whom they belong willing to _die_ for the young man if it meant saving his life.

Not that Luc too hadn't reached the same conclusion; he loved Lawrence as much as he would any real son of his own, and for him he would certainly give his life...

With another succinct glance in the direction of the two, Luc determines that the love that drives both himself and the Australian to reach such a decision are two entirely different loves indeed. As they should be; there was no way Jack saw Lawrence with the same eyes as he…

"_JESUS, LUC_—!"

The Frenchman gasps as well, slamming his foot against the break, mouth agape as the van swirls in spiral shaped lurches across rubber scorched road, gravel crunching sickly beneath the blazing tires he swears are actually smoking.

"PAY ATTENTION T'THE _ROAD_, IF YOU DON'T MIND—!"

But Luc's attention is far ahead of Sniper and his desire to deliver sarcastic pieces of advice; silent in his shock, Luc can only rely on the silent dripping of coolant that leaks from the van's engine to create noise or offer an explanation for what he sees where he physically cannot. Black cars, dozens of them, blockade the road some five hundred feet before them, preventing any further travel along the road.

"Well good goin', with that maneuver of yours 's no way we didn't get noticed by whatever the Hell's goin' on up there!"

"What the fuck—where'd those cars even fuckin' _come from_…" Scout swears incredulously, lifting himself up from the seat, craning his neck to get a better view. "Seriously, it's like a fuckin' _swarm_…"

"I—I did not see zhem! I came up zhe 'ill and I turned my 'ead for _one_ second—"

"'S no way they just 'ppeared outta thin air, mate,"

"I am not implying so! I am just saying zhat I was too distracted to notice—!"

"'S why y'always watch the road—!"

"You don't think they're sheriffs pullin' us over 'cause Luc was drivin' like he's in the _Indy 500_?! I mean, they don't seem to be freakin' out like they saw ya, they're just sittin' there—_weird_…"

"I—I do not know," Luc whispers, gulping as the doors to the vehicles begin to open, menacing even in their distance. "I do not zhink I want to know—"

"Wot—what's wrong, Luc—?!"

"'Ide Lawrence, now!" Luc snaps, Scout grunting from pain at the indelicate push on his head forcing him to the floor of the van.

"What's goin' on, Luc—?!" Sniper shouts back aggressively, his hands gripped around Scout's shoulders, the young man cramped under the dashboard in between the man's calves. "Who're they—?!"

Luc takes a gloved hand and forces Sniper's glance onto the blockade ahead, the colour draining from his face as a dark purple pencil skirt distinguishes itself instantly, contrasting against the waxy black of the cars like a peasant amongst kings.

"Oi, I know her…'s that one bimbo that always comes around with that tool with the _bloody_ camera durin' inspections—what she want?!"

"_LAWRENCE_!" Luc growls, teeth bared.

"_BULLSHIT!_" Sniper roars, though an electronic screech sounds throughout the area, the skirted 'bimbo' now wielding a megaphone.

"Lucien Rousseau! Lucien Rousseau!" she pipes hesitantly, her voice wobbling as she tries to command control of a threatening tone.

"She's callin' for _you_, mate—"

"Lucien Rousseau! You are under arrest for conspiracy, feigning the deaths of Lawrence Broderick William Fitzpatrick and Jack Sweetwater Mundy, as well as obstructing justice!"

"I don't get it, if they're not the authorities, how can they charge 'nd arrest you?! 'Nd you're a _spy_, you feign our deaths all the time with that thing o'yours—"

"Jack, be ready to take Lawrence and run," Luc whispers, showing no sign of having heard neither his charges nor the Australian.

"_Run_?!"

"Further resistance is fruitless, Mr. Rousseau! We have you surrounded on _all_ sides! I wouldn't resist arrest if I were you,"

"Listen t'her, givin' _advice_; '_if I were you_' —'S no way in Hell this bimbo's got me shakin' in my shoes—sounds like she'd cave in at the wind if it blew hard enough…we're not even _surrounded_, we can still turn around—why don't we jus' make a getaway with the van?!"

"Zhe van won't last in a showdown, Jack, and it is not Pauling I fear—'er men do not look like ones who tend to fall be'ind in a car chase…"

"So what, we're jus' gonna sit here 'nd watch while you turn yourself in?!" Sniper snaps, Scout craning his head upward.

"What's goin' on out there, Jack—?!"

"Do not say anyzhing, Lawrence! Zhey mustn't know you are in zhe car wizh us!"

"Surrender Mr. Fitzpatrick and we may even be so kind as to let you go, Mr. Rousseau!"

"Or per'aps zhey already know…" Luc sighs, Sniper however rolling down his window, sticking his head and chest out of the recess.

"OI! PISS OFF, YA VAPID CUNT! YOU'RE NOT TAKIN' ANY OF US ALIVE—!"

"JACK—!"

"I'M NOT LETTIN' ANY O'THOSE BASTARDS GET A HOLD OF LAWRENCE—YEAH, 'S RIGHT, YOU HEARD ME YOU AIRHEADED BIMBO—!"

"Jack, please! Do not lose your temper, or your _mind_ for zhat matter! Do not provoke zhem!"

"I'm not goin' down without a fight, mate," Sniper growls, though neither the three of them nor Pauling and her men make a move, and so it remains for a handful of minutes.

"This is the last time I will warn the three of you, and the last chance I will give you to surrender yourselves without conflict—"

"WITHOUT CONFLICT MY ARSE, YA BLOODY BITCH—!"

"Jack!"

"Give it up, Sniper! You are cornered!"

If it weren't for Luc's grip on around Sniper there was no doubt he would have come charging from the van at the sound of Dmitri's light, song of a voice, heavily influenced by his romantic tongue.

"Lawrence, Lawrence, _Lawwwrennceee_…" the Italian cheers again, waving them down.

"I swear t'God, Luc—" Sniper snarls, and the Frenchman can see an aggressive hatred works as the man's bodyguard, refusing to leave his side even if Sniper himself knew that a calm demeanour was the only thing that would keep them alive, at the very least. It was an emotion Luc was not unused to seeing Sniper so infused with, especially not when the safety of Scout was in question.

"I DARE YA T'TRY 'ND PUT YOUR GREASY WOG HANDS ON 'IM, MATE!"

"Release him, Jack! You cannot be his refuge forever! There will come a time when little Lawrence shall have to answer and repent for his crimes! Who are you to get in the way of justice, Mundy?!"

"If he doesn't shut his bloody mouth, I'm gonna kill'im…"

"Jack, naw, stop—" Scout pleads, making to rise from the floor, though Sniper quickly holds him down.

"I swear t'fuckin' _God_, Luc…"

"It is not even you we are after, Jack! It is not either of you! Every minute you and the Frenchman withhold the boy you are only deepening your own penalties and sentences! Lawrence had his ultimatum! Either he was to kill you, or to be returned to the Administrator and receive punishment for his crimes!"

"Jack…" Scout shakes his head as the man takes his rifle into his hands, bringing the scope to his eye.

"LUC!" Scout calls, and together with him the two manage to pull Sniper's frame from out of the window right as the shot fires, the tug on his mass however angling the otherwise spot on shot so it shoots into the air, as opposed to the preferred target of between the cocky Mediterranean's eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Jack?!"

"Did you see that?! The Bushman tried to kill me—!" Dmitri turns to Miss Pauling, gesturing incredulously at the van, though the woman pays her mind to her hand scribbling upon her clipboard instead.

"Do you wanna get the van stormed?!" Scout pleads, his fingers digging deep groves into the fabric of Sniper's slacks.

"_He actually shot at me—!_"

"'S not like none of 'em give a shit 'bout the crackpot, they prolly don't even know why he's there—dunno why _you_ give a shit, after everythin' he's done to you, love!"

"I don't want you taken _away_, Jack! "Scout shouts, though the two watch in quiet horror as Luc lets the driver side door slam, the man walking slowly toward the blockade, the soldiers now aiming firearms at the van and Luc after Sniper's aggression. Still, Luc approaches them, slow and careful in his stride with his hands raised innocently in the air.

"What the fuck're you doin'?!" Scout screams at his stepfather, scrambling from the prison of leg Sniper encloses him within, the Australian's grip around his waist preventing him from leaving the van, despite the young man's struggle.

"Luc, stop—! _Let me go, Jack_—!"

"YOU'RE NOT GOIN' AFTER HIM, LOVE!"

"Lawrence appears to have the right idea, Jack! As does his stepfather! Leave it to the French to surrender without a fight!"

"Capitulation is your only option, Mr. Mundy!" the same mousy voice of the up until now silent Miss Pauling pipes through her megaphone.

"Lawrence!" Sniper croaks as Scout breaks free from his grip, rushing to take his stepfather's side.

"I ain't lettin' him go back to that fuckin' hellhole alone! She's fuckin' nuts, Jack, and if they're gonna take him 'cause of me, then I'm goin' too!"

"Lawrence, we're goin' through all this so you _don't_ end up back with her!"

"I know, Jack, but I ain't just gonna sit in this fuckin' car while you lose your _fuckin'_ mind 'nd Luc's turnin' himself in for shit he ain't even responsible for!…"

"Y'don't really believe they're gonna let us go if we give _you_ up, d'you? I thought you were smarter than that, love…"

"Yeah, 'cause you're over here callin' people fuckin' cunts 'nd shootin' people in the face, real smart moves for a dude tryin' not to get his ass arrested,"

"So then what, I'm the only one still fightin' for ya?! 'M I the only one who remembers what the fuck it means if she has you, love?!"

"'Nd what about _you_, Jack?! What about what you mean to _me_, huh?!"

"What _about_ me?!"

"Yeah if you don't know, then I ain't gonna tell ya," Scout spits, giving him a final glare, And like an invisible hand scooting him along the path of his unknowing fate, Scout exits the vehicle as well, lifting his arms in the air.

"LAWRENCE, WAIT…!"

"HERE! JUST FUCKIN' TAKE ME!" Scout shouts, holding his wrists out and giving Miss Pauling and her men a sincere look. "I FUCKIN' RAGE QUIT! You want me?! Well fine! Just—!" Scout glares at his watchers, growing impatient as they seem to take their time in arresting him; no one shows any sign of movement, not until Miss Pauling makes a soft motion with the tips of her fingers, some six men slowly moving forward to take them into custody.

Scout is shocked at how lightly clothed they are; he would have assumed the three would have been labeled "armed and dangerous" (or Sniper at the very least, for his shot would have been lethal had Scout and Luc not tugged at him those fateful seconds before shooting) and that such a label would call for armor more extensive than a few purple suited men who relied solely on their burly builds for protection. Then again perhaps they anticipated the three to come quickly and quietly...

"Lawrence," Luc whispers from the corner of his mouth and into Scout's ear, his mumbling inaudible to anyone other than the Bostonian whom he addresses. "I'm sorry—I just knew we couldn't afford any more of a resistance after 'is shot—I—I am not turning you in, I just—I zhought zhis way, I could work as a distraction—zhey arrest me, and you two run— "

"I—I can't keep runnin', not if it's just gonna drag you and Jack and the Doc into all of it, 'nd Jack, he'll get himself killed, the way he's actin',"

"Y—yes, I am afraid so,"

"'Nd I ain't gonna just stand here 'nd risk him gettin' killed if what they want is me. I ain't gonna just let him die,"

"I see 'im; 'e's climbing out of zhe van now. Be ready to take 'is 'and and _run_, Lawrence, do you 'ear me?! Take 'im, run, and do not look back," Luc whispers frantically into the young man' ear, Scout licking his dried lips and answering negatively in sporadic, quick shakes of his head, inwardly concluding to simply stand his ground; there was no point in running now. They had sunk themselves too deep into their one sided truce for a last ditch attempt at escape that would only complicate things further.

"Hey now, boys! No whispering!" Dmitri tisks as he stalks haughtily to the two aggressively tense though threatless men, his black curls bouncing with the same light spring found in his jaunty step. "Oh, would you look who has finally decided to come out of the van! It is okay, Bushman, take your time! I know life outside of the piss van _may_ appear intimidating at first—!"

Dmitri smirks as Sniper stalks his way to Scout and Luc, narrowing his eyes mockingly at the murderous Australian.

"Hands, Jack…" Dmitri commands coolly, Jack rolling his eyes though lifting them nonetheless.

"Will your men be doing the cuffing, Miss Pauling? Or do I get the honour of taking them myself?"

"I—I don't believe the Administrator gave you that authority, Mr. Marino," she explains patiently.

"The authority? The _authority_?!" Dmitri asks incredulously, a thick black eyebrow cocked in vainglorious presumption, green eyes dark with lordy aggression.

"It is _because_ of me, Miss Pauling, that you were even able to locate the runaways—without my tip off they would have been left to run away without judicatory closure, with Lucien as the chauffeur of the traitorous _faggots_! Without my watchful suspicion of Lawrence, the Scout, my _comrade_, the Administrator would have continued to let the subversive perversions continue right underneath her very nose! And to think these two were some of her best mercenaries! The _implication_ that I do not have the _authority_!"

"We're very thankful for your lead, Mr. Marino, but there is a standard protocol I would prefer we followed—feel free to take a seat in the car, or stay where you are and watch their apprehension,"

"Fine, I'll _watch_," Dmitri smacks his hands against his side, smirking at the woman who simply responds with widened eyes and raised eyebrows.

"Don't mind me, Miss P, just watching!" he chuckles warmly. "Aw, how sweet!" he mockingly swoons, rushing to the quiet prisoners, batting his eyelashes at the gripped hands of Sniper and Scout. "Lovers even 'til death!"

Scout is all too familiar with the sights and sounds of Sniper and the power of his fists to be blind to the amount of pain the Australian's pummel of vicious swings and uppercuts inflict onto the Italian. He knows he should interfere, pull the man back, but much like Luc, he can only stare as the bloodied face of the priggish man becomes very well acquainted with Sniper and his ruthless knuckles.

"MISTER MUNDY THAT IS ENOUGH!" Miss Pauling calls as she once again pulls the men apart. "Get them cuffed and into the wagon, please, the Administrator won't want us wasting anymore time," the woman asks kindly of the grunts, the six men pinning the Australian violently to the ground, machine guns pointed threateningly the man's head.

"JACK—!" Scout shouts, writhing in his captor's arms. "LET HIM GO! I AIN'T FUCKIN' PLAYIN'!"

"Please cuff Mr. Fitzpatrick, he's getting difficult," Miss Pauling instantly brings her attention back to her clipboard, each of them being pushed by their captors so they follow her heels, a large wagon, black and unmarked like the cars, awaiting them.

"I don't believe him! How _dare_ he hit me?! First he attempts to shoot me, then he comes back and hits me?!"

"It's been done, Ma'am, Rousseau, Fitzpatrick, and Mundy are all in custody," Miss Pauling explains into a large, blocky celluar device, her neck clearly straining to hold the monstrous block upright upon her shoulder.

"I demand he be punished for his actions—! How dare he put his hands on me—?!"

"Well I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting to have all three in custody so quickly, Ma'am; if it's too much trouble to have three holding cells prepared then we can simply put the Scout and Sniper in one cell together! Or—that—that could work too—no Ma'am, I don't mean to question you—I—yes, right away,"

"The kangaroo fucker should be _castrated_!"

"I'm sorry about your face, Mr. Marino, and I can assure you Mr. Mundy shall be dealt with accordingly, but the Administrator is already annoyed enough that we weren't back a half hour ago—she doesn't want to interrogate the doctor until everyone involved is at the building, and she would prefer if we went ahead and made our way back; would you please take a seat in the car?"

"You're mistaken if y'think she's gettin' a Goddamn word outta me, lady," Sniper snarls, glaring at the ends of the weapons the men brandish in his face the instant he opens his mouth.

"Jack, please!" Scout whines as careless hands shove them both into the back of the wagon, the doors slamming and instantly darkness takes over.

"Jack, your be'aviour is reckless, and it is scaring Scout!"

"Oi, I'm tired o'_behavin'_ the way she wants me, mate; 's isn't about her, it's about Lawrence, 'nd what it means if the Administrator gets 'im! 'Nd I dunno what in the _bloody Hell_ you two meant by jus' shovin' your wrists in their faces 'nd givin' up— what, I'm s'pposed t'just let 'er take 'im away from me like a good boy?!"

"You're being careless, Jack! Brandishing your rifle at men who more likely zhan not 'ave orders to _kill_ Lawrence should we prove to be problematic is probably _not_ zhe best way to keep 'im by your side!"

"'ND GETTIN' IN HER FUCKIN' _DEATH WAGON_ IS?!"

"Jack, please…" Scout whispers, eyes on his bound wrists.

"Sorry, love…" he grunts, looking him sincerely in the eyes.

"But I'm not gonna sit here 'nd pretend like things don't have the potential t'get violent; I'd like t'see her try t'get a syllable outta me, love; I really would."


	34. Spinnable

The dull grey sheets are grainily reminiscent of sandpaper yet strangely smooth like chilled porcelain. Careful to avoid the faded yellow blotches permanently dyed into the scratchy fabric, the origins of the sickly, ominous stains unknown, the pads of Scout's thumb and forefinger prickle as he slides the linens in between them, savoring the sensation and the arousal of the hair on the back of his neck. He tries yet again to lie on top of the box spring mattress, the stiff bed however refusing to bend into any sort of groove despite the weight of his back and the shifting of his shoulder blades that attempt to dig indentations into it.

The blanket, a pastel orange that clashes horribly with the concrete walls and hueless décor of his sleeping quarters, (since when did _he_ care about faggy stuff like that, he notes begrudgingly), isn't _so_ bad, if maybe a bit thin; the cotton he can tell was woven with hands a bit more compassionate than the other pieces of the bedspread set, dark orange strips of faux silk aligning the edges. Small fuzzes cling to its surface as if polyester and wool were magnatised feats of science. It was clean, at the very least, the scent of detergent traceable yet perfume free all the same.

Regardless of the tiny miracles, the cotton square was still a good six inches too short for the young man's body, leaving his ankles and feet completely exposed to the Fall air that slips in completely uninvited through the panes of the glass window that, Scout realized after ten minutes of fumbling with the damn thing, didn't actually _close_ all the way. The one pillow he'd been issued was passable; the case matching the grey sheet in both colour and texture, the pillow itself reasonably comfortable though unremarkable in either pleasance or mediocrity.

His mind races and he finds himself unable to settle, as if the linens were made of eternally scuttling ants instead of the cheapest cotton the young man had ever had the displeasure of encountering. Yet still, Scout concludes with a weary sigh as his hands hook around the cool underside of the cushion, cradling it against his day worn head and sighing as it absorbs its weight—it was no more or less comfortable than the bedroom he'd left behind in Boston.

What did that say about how Scout had come to know the world, about the quality of life as he'd always known it; the military barrack was on par with his childhood bed—or rather his childhood bed was on par with _it_. _Both_ however were a million leagues beyond the metal cage of a cot he'd been forced to come to terms with in jail.

'_Jail_…' Scout's mind echoes internally in a loud, verbal ring, the musing loud against the thought filled yet cavernously hollow conscious of his late night mind. It wouldn't have mattered if Jane Doe, who, if Scout could recall correctly, had introduced himself earlier that afternoon as resident Soldier and battalion leader, had assigned him to a pile of muddied, damp earth in a musty corner; Scout would still have to claim it was a thousand leagues beyond his sleeping arrangements from Suffolk County_Jail_. Even still; despite the upgrade, Scout figured, as he signed the contract with BLU, that even if the barrack _was_ a step up from prison, comfort would have to serve as collateral in exchange for his (technical) freedom; so it went.

Yet was he truly _free_? The recruiting officer, a stump of a man who had entered the young man's cell at the time, despite not having the okay of its inhabitant, had made sure to lay heavy emphasis on the words that implied the affirmative. From the corner of Scout's eye he could see the man's beady brown ones and their narrowed following of his sprint across the track. He didn't like the way he nodded and talked to the guard, pointing a gloved finger in his direction. He didn't like the way the way the man clasped his hands behind his back or the way he sauntered the edge of the fitness court, scrutinizing the young man's stretches and warm ups with a delirious pleasure in his eyes.

Scout hadn't even bothered to shower after the exercise; he'd slung the towel over his sweating, shirtless frame and walked in violated secrecy back to his cell, hoping to have shaken off the trail of his watcher. The man, however, was relentless. Anything to get Lawrence's signature on that dotted line, the consensual ink's engraving on the five year service contract the mustached man was so keen to brandish repeatedly under the young man's nose.

"I saw you out there, you're a real runner, boy," the man claiming to be Blutarch Mann III had whispered at the time, so only the two of them could hear his hushed excitement. "For most of those men out there track is just another remedial exercise—they do it because a guard yells at them to, because it's the only twenty minutes of the day they can spend outside of this_hellhole_, but for _you_, boy, I could tell it was a way of life,"

Scout, who didn't want to seem rude, could only settle with a skeptically raised eyebrow as a response to the man's yellowed smile and cunning eyes, for had Scout spoken he _certainly_ would have said something uncouth.

Running was _alright_, he supposed; in his youth it had been the only thing separating him from the brotherly torture his six older siblings always had the pleasure of bestowing upon him, in addition to being the best way of dealing with his domestic issues with Luc. It really wasn't a way of life at all, but rather a mean to _avoid_ it.

Blutarch, who could tell by Scout's stony glare and silent irritation, allowed his smile and encouraging words to falter, melting off his face in a literal _slide_. If he wanted this boy recruited, then it was time to abandon the tactic of friendly persuasion.

"Look boy, you and I both know that nothing awaits you on the other side of these walls; you're barely twenty one and yet here you are, rotting away with a soiled record, and no reasonable employer in this God forsaken city will want a convicted hooligan with a history of violence working under them if they have any standards on _business_ and how they run theirs. I see that look in your eyes and I already know what you're going to say, Mr. Fitzpatrick—why then, am I so desperate to have you?

Because it wasn't a business my grandfather founded, son; it was _war_. A war against the norm, against the regulations and boundaries _society_ is strangling you with right now as we speak. A war a man of your talent may actually have a _chance_ in altering, in winning. As of now, you're just another inmate filling up another cell, squandering the average Bostonian's taxes, kid, another casualty of society.

You're going to be unarmed and helpless against the onslaught that awaits you there when you walk out of this penitentiary a _"free man"_—if you can even stay on your best behaviour long enough to avoid adding another ten or twenty years to your sentence—now I'm not going to pry and it certainly isn't my place to, but if you were living a life worth living before your conviction, Mr. Fitzpatrick, then _certainly_ you wouldn't be sitting here in that orange jumpsuit marking tallies on the wall in pencil, or am I wrong?

All I'm asking, young man, is for you to realize a dream crafted through generations—a dream whose legacy and fulfillment I am responsible for prolonging—that world out there that has you beaten to the point of crime and punishment. I have the means to change it, BLU has the means to change it—_you_ have the means to change it—all it takes is your name on this line, son, and with that flick of your wrist you'll not only have your freedom and a clean record, but the means to change the_world_, the world _you_ live in."

The words seemed heroic at the time. They _still_ seemed heroic as he lied in bed that same night (much like now), pondering their meaning and their meaning in relation to him. And as the portly man in his bowler hat returned the next day, the mustache groomed this time into a pencil thin ghost of its predecessor, the words had not diminished in valiance.

What about life was he out to change? By fighting in this _war_, adopting the side of this _BLU_, what about the lives of common man was he fighting to change? _'Who cared'_, Scout snapped mentally as he exited the prison with Blutarch leading the way, his suitcase in hand, shoulders adorned with civilian clothing for the first time in sixth months. And as Scout breathed in air unweighted of condemnation, and took in the sights of liberation, he found his compliance and willful entry of the military vehicle that awaited him (BLU's logo on the driver door) that much easier to reconcile.

Blutarch had spent the duration of the car ride chatting excitedly about the beliefs of BLU and its feud with RED, an opposing monopoly that sought to oppress and control the world and its nations through the manipulation of social politics and the exploitation of the laissez faire economy. Presidents had no power, he explained, but rather the financial giants _fueling_ them, and RED was one of them. RED was a global player and corrupt, Blutarch had explained gravely, and the only way to save the world was through a series of underground proxy wars (though Blutarch had been careful to avoid the term) and force.

"This is where you come in, lad; I am relying on you to capture depots and safehouses; control those, and you control the territory. Control the territory, and you control the land. Control the land and you control the nation. Control the nation, you control its people. Control the people, and you control the world."

It sounded _far_ from peaceful, Scout had noted silently. The man who had just seconds ago preached salvation from the imperialistic REDs now sat next to him frothing at the mouth over the thought of _world domination_. But who cared; shoot a gun, run a bit, capture a _point_, and it meant Scout was thousands of miles away from Luc and out of prison. He only had five years to his name with these freaks and in exchange he had a clean record, and by what Blutarch had hinted, a well paying salary. It seemed dream like.

_'Dream like…'_ he scoffs as he kicks the blankets from his stomach. It was awfully hard to imagine himself a victor of the free world and mankind in an itchy, nonmalleable bed and a gaseous stomach grumbling due to the dinner rations not quite settling in his digestive system.

_'What happened to the days when I just wanted to be a fuckin' baseball player…'_

His deportation to this "2Fort" had been swift and unspeakably efficient; only a mere five days ago had Blutarch instilled within him the images of heroism and here he was in BLU sanctioned pajamas. He hadn't even called home, informed his mother…he rather feared _that_ discussion, the young man contemplating how he'd explain to the assuredly frantic woman how he'd gone from a felon to a soldier fighting for the world eating fiber rations in the Badlands of Nevada in less than seven days; well, he wasn't a _soldier_ the title was apparently _Scout_, if memory served him correctly.

According to Mr. Doe, he was the only one BLU had in the Teufort base, which made his worth and cruciality to the missions rise exponentially higher; only he was truly swift enough to undermine the enemy faction in order to steal and commandeer their territory.

"Our last one gave his life to secure this base; bit on the runty side like you, but I still maintain that kid had the fastest damn legs in all of America," Jane had grunted, blowing smoke through the corner of his twisted mouth, the rich scent of the cigar choking Scout silently. "He was a real brave kid, he was—never gave a RED a beating he didn't deserve, never let a RED run away from one, either. Teufort was always RED land, but not a word could sway his resolve; he wanted to advance and surround the maggots and who was I to say no? We had the manpower—boy wasn't gonna go down without a fight—so he scouted it out and took out the REDs tryin' to hold it down in their last efforts. He didn't see that son of a bitch Tavish had lined it with those explosives—gave his last breath for this fort—can't believe it's been five years, now…"

Scout, who didn't want to be rude, simply settled with a careful nod and obliged the man by lifting his glass along with the gruff American to take a sip in honour of the previous Scout's memory, a barely inaudible "to Jeremy," slipping through Jane's dry lips. He resented his selfish thoughts, especially in wake of the story of bravery and sacrifice he'd just been treated to by his commanding officer, but he couldn't help dwell on them.

Jane may not have said it outright, but Scout could tell by the man's even toned, critical yet strangely _hopeful_ utterances of_'like you's'_ that Jane had seen Scout not as Lawrence but as yet another honourable young man _a bit on the runty side_ ready to fight and die for BLU's prosperity. It was a name to live up to, Scout grimaced, a name Scout hadn't agreed to and wasn't all too certain he could do justice; he couldn't say he felt so strongly about his sudden allegiance to this _BLU_ that he would give his life for a damn _fort_.

"'Cause of his sacrifice BLU's managed to get RED to a nice standstill; all across America and even the world there are small fronts like this, and it's because of Jeremy I have the honour to say I am commanding officer of BLU's most successful strategic location,"

_"Don't fuck this up, boy,"_ is all Scout could decipher from the man's underlying tones.

"It's been a rough fight, but our fight can only lead to victory and our victory is a victory for BLU," Jane sighs, taking his empty plate and rising from the metallic table in the small messhall. "For _freedom_."

Scout could rally behind that. For _freedom_.

If only Scout had known that it had nothing to do with freedom but rather he was merely a means of settling a brotherly dispute and quarrel of land and the domination of the already free world.

"You aren't going to eat your peas, kid? They're good—about the only you're going to find around here with butter on it," Jane grumbled as he left the boy to pick at his mashed potatoes in his silence.

-  
>Scout couldn't say he had any desire to stay up much longer past "dinner". It was only eight o'clock, sure, but after a failed attempt of going around and getting to know his comrades and their names ("Names have no place on the battlefield, son, from now on you will address each of us by class and rank followed by 'sir' as they will you," Soldier had snapped) the need for socialization had dissipated as did his desire.<p>

The buttered peas and rolls scorched to a rock hard stasis Scout had barely managed to swallow prove their consumption to be glaring mistake in the form of turbulent indigestion, Scout rolling over with a groan. Trying to ignore the rising bilge and its ascending excursion tearing at his esophagus, the only thing Scout can do is breathe his nausea away with even intakes of stuffy barrack air, willing himself not to get sick all over his bed his very first night sleeping in it.

Shadows streak their way across the walls in distorted veins, an ultimate embodiment of time and how early it still was. Early enough to still warrant visitors, apparently; it wasn't until the third sharp rap on the door that Scout finally concluded he wasn't imagining the sounds among the delusional lull of slumber. As the bright lights flicker on and the door swings open, Scout sits up to meet his intruder.

"_There_ you are! _What_ are you doing in bed, it is not yet time for sleep, hup hup!" Jane barks at the groaning Scout, brow furrowing at his long winded sneer.

"_Do_ not gape your mouth at me, boy, you will rise out of that bed and have it made like it has never been slept in in three seconds or less so help me _God_!" Jane spits loudly into the groggy young man's ear, Scout flinging the covers off his person and rising to fold it into meticulous quarters.

"_How_ dare you sleep before the designated lights out period and then proceed to stand before me rolling your eyes like you make the rules around here!" Jane barks as Scout drops the blanket, scrambling to his knees to pick it up once again.

"You think you're _funny_, funny man?! Huh?! Listen up, son, this is not your _house_, this is not Boston, this is not_Lawrenceburg_, you cannot just drop into bed whenever you feel like it! And _mommy_ sure will not be here to tuck you in, no sir! Now wipe off those butter fingers and fold that blanket like a _real_ man! Get to it!"

Scout's breathing quickens as his fingers fumble to match it, the young man trying desperately to match up the corners evenly and efficiently while being swift all the while.

"_You_ will never lay your head on another pillow in this base again until you have my consent, _do_ you understand that?!" Jane snatches Scout's front, glaring into his eyes.

"Y—yeah—"

"YES _SIR_—"

"Y—yes sir—"

"_Get_ down into the Medibay, son, Engineer will be cutting your hair to an appropriate length in approximately three and a half minutes! _I_ will not have any juvenile hippies running around in my _base_, no _sir_!" Jane shouts as he marches from Scout's room, not even dignifying the newest recruit with a scowl back.

Scout, who stands completely shocked for a good twenty seconds after the disgruntled American's departure, sighs heavily before swiping a tired hand through his admittedly thick hair, realizing all the while he had no idea where the medibay actually_was_; BLU's Sniper, a middle aged man whom Scout presumed to have been hired from Mexico, was the one who had met him at the gate of the base when the young man had arrived in Blutarch's private vehicle.

Other than the brief, half hearted words of forced and short lived introduction neither man had said anything, the silent sharpshooter leaving Scout to struggle with his own horde of luggage whilst scaling the completely new terrain. He certainly hadn't offered to show Lawrence _around_. Thus it is no mystery to the young man why he stands in the sleeping wing of the base completely dumbfounded and overwhelmed as to which staircase or corridor would best lead him to the basement in time for his haircut.

Going _down_ seemed like the best course of action, Scout's unbandaged hands sliding against the cool, metal banister. His steps echo in unsettling undulations off the silent hall, as if the empty silence meant to mock his new inexperience by augmenting his heavy clash against the marble floor.

Still, like an entranced lamb tricked out of its mind he simply continues to descend the staircase, his feet making labourious lurches to the ground with each step he takes.

_'This must be as far down as it goes…'_ Scout notes mentally as even within the reinforced walls an earthy undertone wafts in the Medibay's air. It was more of a rectangular basement comprised of a series of twisting hallways; doors littered either side of the mazing pathways, many of them bolted and locked with the words, _Restricted_ or _To be entered by medical persons only_ printed in different languages on signs adhering to the woodwork.

_Persons_ seemed like an awfully strange term to use, considering they only had one doctor, according to Jane. A damn good one, by the sound of it—apparently an older German who'd served in the Second World War in his day, though for what _side_Scout can't say he wasn't all too interested in figuring out.

Scout is careful to make sure his steps are quiet and his figure is hunched as he treks his way down the silent, dark hallway, as if terrified his presence would lure the potentially venomous doctor from his operations like a gargantua drawn from his lair. The hum and buzzes of angry machinery is muffled through the walls, Scout somewhat certain a maintenance room must be in one of the adjoining cupboards or closets by which he walks past. Hopefully their whines were loud enough to mask the sounds of the _living_.

Though no amount of caution is enough to deter the young man's curiosity as he saunters past a door whose blinds are _not_drawn in the window. Cupping his hands around his eyes and peering in, Scout gulps as his eyes adjust to the darkness, an operation table sitting square in the middle of a moderately sized room, completely grey with otherwise nothing in it. The metal glimmers despite the lack of an illuminating light source, the dark grey piercing, clear, and unsmudged, perfectly reflective. A surgical table sits next to it, various tools of assuredly ominous purposes littered across its width.

His eyes widen worriedly, and he feels as if the floor had been wrenched from underneath his feet completely; dark, chipped blood absolutely drenches the floor of the mystery room, splattered about messily in thick heavy coats, sloppy like a forboding child's painting. Different hues of the liquid shade the otherwise unscuffed floor, as if some torrents were spilled more recently than others.

The creeping sense of dread that fills Scout only doubles itself as he audibly gasps, it only just now becoming apparent to the young man that the walls too are just as dirtied. It wasn't an infirmary, it was a _massacre_.

"Hey, now, you the new guy?"

Scout jumps and screams so violently he staggers back away from the door, crashing heavily into a neatly situated pile of janitorial supplies resting against the wall opposite of the room he'd just peeked into.

"Heh heh—about as skittish as they come, ain't ya? I guess it ain't such a bad thing, though, you Scouts wouldn't be worth the name if you weren't quick to startle and take off at a firecracker—then again I sure do hope you know to run _away_ for the real deal,"

Scout, who _hated_ when people spied, _hated_ when people spooked him, and _hated_ being ridiculed when slipping up like he had just now, still takes the moist, pudgy hand of the rather stocky man who extends it, thankful that it didn't belong to the butcher whose responsibility it was that the room was painted red.

"Light as a feather—I swear the boys they bring in here get younger and younger and even _smaller_—you're a tiny little thing…"

Scout would love to respond with the sharp _'I ain't no fuckin' rabbit'_ that lies on the tip of his tongue, though his distaste at the man's endearing tone lightens, for Scout doesn't want to silence the first person who'd spoken to him without harsh intentions for the first time that day. It was a nice change, and he found that he certainly welcomed it, exceptionally complacent with the belittling though he was.

"So're you the one Soldier said needed a haircut?"

Scout nods in response to the man's jovially posed question, raising an eyebrow as he catches sight of the thick rubber gloves adorning the man's hand as he pushes open a door with the palm of it. What for did he need industrial grade gloves for_haircutting_?

"Alright, alright, take a seat,"

Scout is pleased to see this operation room is brightly lit and free of blood as opposed to its neighbour. A sink with a spotless mirror resting atop it sits in the corner, a chair facing it, presumably a place to sit for the one getting barbered.

"Well what're you waitin' for, kiddo? That seat don't bite, now…" he chuckles, and Scout jumps slightly, jarred from his thoughts, apologizing quietly and taking his place in the chair. Scout eyes his reflection gravely, the young man who stares back at him silently suggesting that he sends any parting thoughts to his hair now while the stocky man with the easy grin and accent washes a pair of hair shears accordingly.

"You look about as cool as a robber on death row, son, who stuck the burr under your saddle?" the man chuckles down at his client, drying the blades with a small white handtowel. "Then again I know we've howdied but not exactly shook—well, unless you count me liftin' you outta them buckets—I'm Rick,"

Scout takes Rick's hand, gripping it starkly in his own and flashing the man a small smile.

"Lawrence,"

"Pleasure, Lawrence—It sure doesn't take a genius to see you're the new Scout Jane said'd be arrivin' about now; you've all got that same build, like you could fit in my pocket!"

Scout can't help but smile along with Rick, whose round faces flushes, his body overcome with the intensity and sound of his own raspy laughter, his stunning blue eyes narrowed in gentle mirth.

"Now how old're you, son?"

"Twenty one—just turned twenty one in August,"

"Well shucks, kiddo, you're even younger than I thought!" Rick sighs rather heavily, Scout rather reproachful himself as the man takes the razor to his head, the mechanical whirl loud in his ear as a sea of strands flutter to the ground like weightless strings of yarn, noiseless in their proceeding thump to the ground.

"So what was it then, partner—ya get drafted? I hear things are gettin' worse for you young folk out there, that the government can barely wait until you boys are fresh outta learnin' before puttin' a gun in your hands; so did you have to pick between either BLU or 'Nam? Guess the choice was obvious," Rick questions him heavily, Scout shaking his head quickly.

"N—nah—my brothers have _all_ managed to avoid the draft out to 'Nam, now you mention it…"

"How many you got?"

"Six,"

"Woo wee, if that ain't a number—your Ma must be a real strong little lady, son, and thankful her boys ain't over there meddlin' with the Viet Kong,"

"She definitely ain't no one to push around,"

"Still, now if that ain't a wonder you boys have all escaped the draft—slap me on the wrist if I get too nosy, boy, but what in the world would lead ya to fightin' for a little place like this? Don't get me wrong, a patriot's a patriot and he's gonna be no matter what, God bless 'em—but I'd think a young man like yourself would get away from the storm after avoidin' it!"

"It—it's like fulfillin' a favour," Scout explains slowly, scratching at his neck, jumping as he can nearly feel the flesh of his scalp—

"Careful now, boy, I don't need ya jumpin' 'nd wonkin' up the cut! Now what do you mean a _favour_?! You related to the Mann's? No offense, string bean, but those Mann's can really be quirky ones, the way they're always shippin' their boys to war, then they're always squabblin' about heirs—then again the fewer boys they've got hangin' around, the fewer ways they gotta split the spoils of the legacy. Hopin' they get killed in action, I suppose—I'm sorry, son, I guess it ain't my place to talk about your family like that…"

"Nah, I ain't related to no one named Mann—who're they?!"

"You mean to say you weren't drafted to BLU and you ain't got a clue as to who the Manns are?! Guess crazy ole Jane ain't shown you the video yet…"

"The video?"

"I won't spoil it—all new recruits see it their first week…it always gets a laugh outta 'em when you first see it—it's silly, but informative, I guess…"

"Well how did you get involved with BLU?" Scout asks curiously, Rick chuckling again, his chest heaving like the bread rising in a sweltering oven.

"Now you still ain't answered _my_ question, son!"

"Oh—sorry—"

"I'm just givin' ya grief, kid—I started off weldin' for a small little company back in Montana—went to college and got a few degrees, so I can prove I ain't all rock headed if I gotta. 'Course I'd been workin' doin' things of the mechanical sort with this nice little company, called Little Rock Industrial—I'd been there for twenty years, son,"

"Been?"

"Yeah, sadly 'been's the way it's gotta be put. I came to work, one day. It was Spring of 1963 and even though the snow was meltin' I couldn't put a thing past them shivers of mine; somethin' just didn't seem right, you know? 'Course here comes little Blutarch Mann in that suit of his, slitherin' about like a snake in a sugar cane field,"

"That short guy with the yellow teeth and that weird mustache?!"

"Heh, he's still got that little mustache, huh? Yup, that's the one. Walked around real calm and neat, takin' his time and watchin' everyone about the workshop do their thing. Maybe I was quick to judge, but he just didn't settle right with me; somethin' about that sneer o'his—he tried hidin' it, son, but I tell you, dirt shines on the cleanest of cotton.

I could tell he really thought he was somethin', in that suit of his. He assumed just 'cause most of us were sportin' dirty overalls with oil in our fingernails he was amongst a bunch of disposable greasers who probably couldn't even write their own names if he asked us to! Well I'd reckon me and them boys had more schoolin' than Blutarch or any of his brothers or cousins combined. You can buy them suits and you can marry into wealth, but there ain't no amount of money that can buy a mind," Rick explains, tapping at his temple.

"But he wasn't after our minds, string bean—least not at first, he wasn't. I reckon he was scoutin' about lookin' for knuckleheads big enough to take a few shots to the stomach; someone to soak up firepower and take some hits so BLU wouldn't have as many casualties, you feel me?"

"Y—yeah,"

"He thinks welders 'nd landscapers, well, he thinks we only learned a trade and can barely tell our left from our right, and that his whole hodge podge speech about _worth_ would inspire us to sign more contracts he's probably ever gotten at one time. That Blutarch'll tell you anything he thinks'll spark _morale_. But the key to sparkin' it is sparkin' it in people easily swayed_anyway_. You know what that means? _Dummies_," Rick spits.

"Sit up, boy, I can't reach your head when you slouch like that," he scolds, Scout embarrassed that he had been one of the very _dummies_ so captivated by Blutarch's spiel.

"He and his men look around for potential recruits in the places he thinks are _most likely_to find real impressionable people who aren't_"accomplishing"_ anything—correctional institutions, jails, students graduating from trade schools, what have you,"

"Where the Hell do you think he got Jane?" Scout gulps, attempting to shake off his nervousness.

"Heh—funny story, apparently Mr. Mann was moved by the article in the newspaper a few years ago. Apparently Doe caused quite a scene at World War Two Veterans reunion some time ago. Blew up the banquet table when they wouldn't let him in for not having been enlisted durin' the war,"

"What?! He's got all those medals—!"

"He made 'em himself. That crackpot was never a real Soldier, he paid his own airfare and brought his own grenades; he was a volunteer, except insane,"

"So dude just like, put himself on the Western Front, a literal one man Army?"

"Blutarch musta liked his _fire_, figured he'd fight for any war that offered him a uniform and claimed to be on the side of_America_. Played to his patriotism I imagine, 'course that high nosed sleaze never stopped to think that maybe he ain't got everybody in the world all figured out and predicted. Maybe we ain't bathin' in oils and sleepin' in cold hard cash like he may be, but we're not stupid,"

"So how did you end up here, then?"

"Well, Blutarch wasn't interesting in recruitin' that day, he had his eyes on the business, not the little guys,"

"He bought the company out?"

"Yup—Little Rock Industrial just became another finger on the hand _Builders League United_—BLU, if you will. Turns out maybe I'd underestimated just how smart we are, string bean—but it wasn't the workers, it was the higher ups who sold the company—blew over quicker than a shack of sticks when they saw the price that old coo was offerin',"

"Dude, that sucks—but you said you had all those degrees, how come you didn't just go somewhere else when you got bought out?"

"No man is without his temptations, Scout. Blutarch didn't come at me with the slow speech and words of betterin' myself like he might with the other kids he tries to recruit. He saw I had things goin' on upstairs, and so he manipulated his whole spiel just for that. He wasn't content with me workin' in the factories—he wanted me on the _field_ buildin'.

Came and sat me down, said I was one of the best engineers he'd ever seen, my turret designs and welding techniques were top knotch. Though it would take more than that to win me over—my colleagues were all master welders. If I were just an exception he wouldn't have made the risk of buyin' us all, right? He'd gotten word of the groundbreaking research I'd managed to make in the field of teleportation,"

"_Teleportation_?!"

"Tha's right; I was the first in all the world to make a successful teleporter,"

"DUDE, THAT'S—THAT'S _HUGE_! WHY—WHY—WHY AREN'T YOU _FAMOUS_?! ON _TV_?! WRITIN' BOOKS—?!"

"It was all just a quirky side project I'd been developin' at the time. I'd shown my schematics to one of my bosses and I imagine he told Mr. Mann about my research durin' one of the discussions finalizing the purchase of Little Rock. When little ole Blu' heard the news of course he instantly thought of what the capabilities of teleportation meant for his armies' victories—and what it could mean if RED or the rest of the world got a hold of the blueprints. Lucky for him I was already an employee of his, eh?"

"Jesus, dude—!"

"He cut right to the chase—said my designs and technology were revolutionary, that I should be _honoured_ that my inventions would be put into practice, and namely on the battlefield in the name of justice. Now I was always raised by my Ma not to get involved in no fights if they don't come to me first. I knew the 'League was _United_ alright, but by warmongers, not builders—"

"Warmongers?"

"This war we're fightin'? It's just two cousins carryin' on the fight of two brothers who sought control over the entire world…"

"What—?!"

"You heard me. And the only reason we haven't desecrated each other to complete shreds is because we're constantly bein' watched—her name is Helen Ingram, a real wench of a woman, but we just call 'er the Watcher, or the Administrator,"

"What do you mean she _watches_?!"

"Well, she watches the tides of battle—I reckon her grandma was friends with Zephenian Mann back in the 1850's. She takes care of the Mann family's affairs, and she's supplyin' 'em the weapons at that,"

"What kinda friend is that?! She just watches these dudes kill each other and other people?! And gives 'em the shit to do it?!"

"I won't spoil it, I'll let you watch the video—though it's gonna try to tell you you're fightin' for _justice_—'nd you bet your britches there was no way I was goin' to allow my works to be used to fuel a war machine built so two little rich snots could control the world and all its nations and governments,"

"So then what?! What happened, Rick—?!"

"I gave that slack jawed monkey a piece of my mind! I told him I didn't have no business with murders and no words for tyrants! I said I was cleanin' out my cupboard and that he could take me off the payroll! Now Mr. Mann didn't like that at all, string bean. He said I had one more chance to accept deployment—"

"Or else what—?!"

"I'm getting' to that son, hold your britches! He said he didn't have no qualms about snatchin' up my schematics and patenting them as a design of BLU and implementing them without my consent. As it was, I'd developed the technology in what was now BLU labratories, so they were, legally speakin', _his_ property as I didn't have the patent. A man of his wealth, status and power would have won the battle even if he wasn't legally in the right. The way I saw it, they were gonna take my inventions and use them for their own gain, but at least by acceptin' deployment _I_ could build them personally and my own discretion, and my name was credited to the science behind them—now let me tell ya, the video they show the _Soldiers_and the video they show the ones on the _factory_ lines are way, way different,"

"_Shit_, man," Scout sighs. "Dude was kinda a sleazeball and all, but he wasn't _extortin'_ me…"

"Now how'd you wind up in all this mess?"

"I—I was in—in jail—I signed a five year contract as a Scout so I could get out with a clean record…"

"Now what was a right nice young man like yourself doin' locked up in jail? You look about as harmless as a fruit fly,"

"I—I kinda got into it with my stepdad, put him in the hospital for a month…"

"Gosh—well woo wee, son, I guess there's more to ya than your little arms would hint, 'eh? Look in the mirror, how'd I do?"

Scout blinks; it was actually a rather dapper, fitting cut. Short and proper, perhaps, but it brought out his jaw and complimented his angled face.

"Naw, you did alright, hard hat," Scout grins, hoisting himself from the chair and brushing his front of loose hair. "Thanks,"

"No problem, kiddo," Rick smiles, clasping a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be alright—we're all here for different reasons, maybe one or two of us the only ones without reasons that aren't _questionable_, but we're a pretty close group,"

"Really? No one said a word to me all day—you're the first one,"

"Jane don't even want us usin' _names_ let alone sparkin' up smalltalk, string bean,"

"Yeah, what's up with that?!"

"It's best just not to ask, kid, this is a man that flew himself out to Germany and supplied his own grenades we're talkin' about…"

"I—I mean, _yeah_…"

"And I suggest you hop on over to the room over where Jane has the projector set up for ya—I think you'll get a kick out of the video."

-

"Founded in 1850 by Zephenian Mann and his two sons, Blutarch and Redmond Mann, Mann & Sons Munitions Concerns, otherwise known as _Mann Co_, has always been an integral part of society,"

Scout yawns, placing his head down against the desk, the glare of the projector causing the young man to develop a throbbing headache. _BLU and You_ was nowhere near as entertaining to Scout as Engineer hinted it would be.

"…the death of Zephenian Mann left behind his land, wealth, and power to his two sons. Though Redmond was greedy, and wanted his brother's share all to his own, he wanted the _world_,"

Scout scoffs, Blutarch the I taking a great resemblance to his grandson, his brother Redmond however portrayed as a sniveling gremlin with hunched features and green, lecherous skin. It seemed like something from a badly written fairy tale.

"Times have changed, and under the innovative business practices of Blutarch and his sons, Builders League United has expanded beyond railroad development into an international conglomerate that contributes to a variety of things—household products, automobiles, steel and iron, produce and vegetation, space travel, politics—"

The video goes onto list a whole five minutes worth of things BLU influences, each bullet point accompanied by cheery cartoon Blutarchs interacting with equally complacent and jovial civilians accordingly.

_'This is bad, dude wasn't jokin'…'_

"Sit up, son you will _not_ fall asleep during this film, do you _know_ how hard it is to pull this projector down?!" Jane growls, Scout sitting up though huffing defiantly.

"...RED, or Reliable Exacavation Demolition, is Redmond Mann's own response to the League, and seeks to undermine the peace of the entire world by funding, backing, and supplying weaponry to the Communist menace!"

_'Why haven't we heard of them before, then…?'_ Scout snaps internally. An "evil" corporation supplying _Communists_ with ammunition would simply get some coverage in the news—then again he wasn't one to watch it. Perhaps he was simply uninformed…

"…Otherwise known simply as the _Administrator_ and head of TF Industries is the supplier of the highest and latest weaponry of military technology. Washington based, the company was founded first by Elizabeth Ingram, a loyal servant of Zephenian to whom the former's estate was left behind. It can be presumed her involvement with arms dealership stems from her own involvement in the Mann Co parent company…"

_'So then some woman just watches us kill with the weapons she gives us?!'_

"…That is why we call upon _you_, brave soldier! Only with _you_ can RED be vanquished and the world saved!"

Scout rushes to cover his mouth as an audible laugh actually escapes it, Jane shrieking loudly; a knight upon a white steed lifts the trap of his helm, the viewer treated to a yellow, wobbly smile of Blutarch the III, striking down a carboard cutout of his cousin, Redmond the III, the saber however not piercing as it should. After a cluster of highly lazy editing, the cutout sits on the ground with a large hole through the forehead, Blutarch attempting to pose valiantly, though he is seen falling off the horse a split second before the video cuts out.

"Well, that's it, kid. You will be tested on the contents of the video tomorrow by Medic. Failure to pass this test shall result in a rewatching of the video eight times followed by four hundred push ups. _Now_ you may sleep as you are no longer an uninformed hippie. Dismissed!"

-

The blankets haven't eased in their unorthodox comfort even after an hour of running around.

_'Maybe I should just get up and take a walk…'_ Scout grunts, for he certainly wasn't growing any closer to sleep staring at the low ceiling, lost in thought about that what it is he'd managed to drag himself into. It wouldn't hurt to get to know the battlefield a bit in a state of calm, free of calamity; especially if he was meant to _die_ for it, as Soldier had hinted. He could at the very least become acquainted with that he was expected to die for if necessary. Either he was faced with the potential of _dying_ fighting communists and preventing a nuclear fallout or simply helping the blue shaded of the two quarrelers unlawfully steal the half of the world and its workings belonging to the other. Either way he still had his mother to call to even inform her he was fighting for _any_ reason at that…

Thinking about it made his head hurt. Scout buttons the slacks back up to his waist, lifting his jutted, terribly painted window and looking downward to find chuckling voices belonging to his comrades creeping from below, their backs leaned lazily against the wall.

Exiting the base itself was simple; the metallic door was propped open slightly, Rick and Jane, and their Sniper enjoying a lazy smoking break, faces cast in shadows and light reflecting the position of the sun in its quiet descension. None of them speak, Scout notes. None of them seem to have eyes for anything that wasn't _smokeable_. And it is because of this Scout slips through the confines of the door with ease.

The exterior of the building had a highly industrious feel to it, the perimeter of BLU's sector aligned with reinforced steel fences, the cool grey of the iron fortress behind them ominously unscalable. In a not too far off distance the structure of what Scout presumed to be RED territory lies across the way, a large sewer and many meters of field separating the two bases from what would otherwise be instant death for both parties if the feet between them did not exist.

The Scout before him really _did_ manage to capture and fortify a base in conveniently close proximity to RED, Scout notes, careful not to make too much noise across the bridge overlying the sewer he'd presume was built by BLU at the time of occupation.

_"The only thing stoppin' us from descecratin' each other is the fact that she's always watchin'; if it weren't for Miss Ingram—the Administrator—we would have killed the REDs long ago—or they us. 'Cause of her, we don't attempt any acts outside of her call. And it's why you always have to be prepared. She could call for a mission in sixty seconds, or a mission in two days. It all depends on when she gets a new shipment of weapons to pawn on us, or when a dispute between Blutarch and Redmond can't be solved with words. It's a dirty business you've gotten yourself into, boy,"_

Was she watching now, Scout wonders as he climbs the top of the fence, yelping as his hand gets caught in the barbwire, rolling against the dried grass and taking his first breath of RED air on the other side.

It wasn't any different, albeit where cool and grey set the tone of the BLU sector, a dark and rich redwood furnished the fortress instead. Though where fields and dust settled itself as the anchored earth upon which BLU stood, trees and floral rise and twist their way in healthy roots instead. It's a wonder the nature wasn't destroyed by war.

_"You oughta take a look at Teufort City proper if you wanna see what all our feudin's done to the wildlife 'round here, son—them badlands don't even deserve the name, they've been blown by rockets and bullets and shells to be 'bout as bad as a goody two shoes in Sunday School."_

Rick had a saying for everything, Scout was quickly coming to notice. Already his voice was echoing the advice loudly in his head. Perhaps it was best to discard them; the man had clearly had his bad experiences with BLU and that Scout couldn't deny, but that the Mann family were orchestrating a large ploy to take over the world seemed downright preposterous the most he thought about it, really.

Like the tellings of a bittered old man.

_'I guess he ain't that old…'_

Scout walks with his eyes rooted on the ground, memorizing the location of every rock and pebble and indent in the earth, anything that could possibly trip him up during a mission. Already mapping out which deposits and entrances would be best to blockade or commandeer in his head, a haughty smirk slides across his lips.

It was all he could do to not imagine it BLU, captured under his influence.

Perhaps it was the rush of being in the territory of his newly sworn enemy that instilled within him such assured glimpses of victory in his name. Where Lawrence would be the word to bring tears to Jane's eyes, where he would transcend the protocol of _class and rank_ and his breast would be bedecked in medals and honours like precious buttons—and he wouldn't be making them for himself.

He would come back home, scarred and bruised but refined and perfected from combat, browned with sun and darkened with sweat and spilled blood, his eyes would command those of all whom he would tell his stories of bravery and sacrifice, his brothers hooked onto his every word whenever he'd come home and visit during leave…

They'd remark about little Larry and how he'd _grown_, asking again for the third retelling of how he'd simultaneously saved his comrades from BLU's burning base while chasing and swindling the REDs out of their own.

Scout, so caught up in his boyish dreams of untainted heroism to not even notice his calm walk had led him to the front of RED's base. He has to stop himself from uttering a loud _"YES!"_ as a large apple tree still ripe with decently sized fruit to bear presents itself now Scout allows his fantasies to draw to a close, though clearly pleased with the reality of the fruit tree before him.

"Fuck yeah!" Scout beams, the cleats catching against the bark, the leaves swaying loudly, a few birds taking off into the evening as Scout treks up higher into it. Plucking the completely red ones and inspecting it, Scout lets the adequate apples fall to the dusty, shaded ground below with a light "plop". Careful not to bruise them, he lets up a bit on his wrist, Scout thinking nothing of it until a loud "OI!" sounds from below, Scout screaming and nearly tumbling down.

"Bloody squirrels—think I won't kill ya up there?! Why don't ya try droppin' another one o'them on my head 'nd see how you like a bullet in your skull—"

Scout freezes at the raging, accented rant down below, careful not to shake the tree, sending more fruit to plop onto the head of the infuriated man who curses the nonexistent squirrels down below. Hopefully he would not be so quick to shoot a human as well—

'_A BLU human…_' Scout gulps, yelping as his ankle slips, sending flakes of bark and leaves to the ground, the man screaming again as Scout nearly falls ontop of him, though he saves himself with a quick latch onto a branch, hoisting himself up into their depth quickly.

"_WHO THE BLOODY HELL'RE YOU?!_" the tall, accented man shouts aggressively, Scout's chest heaving so heavily and his heart pounding so raucously in his ears, exploding against his throat; he can say nothing.

"ANSWER ME!" He shouts, Scout watching the man for silent seconds as sweat trails down his neck and below the collar of his wife beater, his long, lanky legs steeled defensively, establishing his ground upon the earth. "Y'got three seconds t'get your arse down from that tree 'nd explain yourself b'fore I pump ya full o'lead,"

"You—you can't hurt me—!" Scout nearly pleads, pressing himself closer against the branch of the tree he rests against

"Y'wanna bet, mate?!" the man asks darkly, pulling back the slide of his shotgun, leering murderously up at the young man over the edge of his sunglared sunglasses. "'Cause I ain't had a problem hurtin' people in the past…"

"I—I—I didn't mean to start nothin', I swear—!"

"Uhuh—so then I'm s'posed t'believe some bloke I've never even seen around, let alone on this _base_, doesn't mean nothin' 'nd I'm supposed t'jus let'im waltz outta my apple tree like he wasn't creepin'—?!"

"You—you ain't gotta _shoot_ me—?!"

"What are ya, a _BLU_?!" the man snarls, lifting the brim of his slouch hat over his eyes and smirking condescendingly at the defensive though no longer cowering Scout. "'Cause I'm afraid that I _gotta_ if y'are,"

"Dude, please, I—I ain't even armed!"

"So then what the Hell's a BLU doin' in my little _RED_ tree, eh? Jus' takin' in the scenery?!"

"I—"

"Prolly _spyin'_—"

"I ain't though!"

"Y'get a glimpse o'me in the shower, mate?!" Sniper asks smugly, and Scout can see that it isn't sweat but water that courses in small droplets along his body.

"N—_NO_—!"

"Yeah right, you're a spyin' _perv_, ya random, BLU little—"

"I ain't fuckin' little dude, I said I wasn't spyin' on _your_ fuckin' grody ass, now leave me alone—!"

"Leave _you_ alone?!"

"Yeah leave _me_ alone! I'll kick your sorry ass back to England—!"

"I ain't one o'those bloody crumpet tossers, I'm a dinkum Aussie!"

"A _what_—?!"

"_A dinkum Aussie_!"

"Is that British for a _dick_?!"

"I TOLD YA I AIN'T ONE O'THEM! I AIN'T BRITISH 'ND I NEVER WILL BE! YOU CAN SHOVE YOUR QUEEN 'ND 'ER KINGDOM UP YOUR BLOODY ARSE!"

"Yeah, yeah, go back to England you fuckin' prick—"

"CALL ME A BRIT AGAIN, I DARE YA—!"

"Bri—HEY, HEY, STOP, YOU'RE SHAKIN' THE TREE, _STOP_! I'M GONNA FUCKIN' FALL—!"

"I'm an _Australian_ givin' ya two seconds b'fore I shoot that head off your _neck_—"

"You can't do that, she's watchin'—!"

"_Who's_ watchin'?!"

"Helen Ingram, the—the Administrator!"

"What about 'er?!"

"She'll know if you kill me, 'cause you ain't supposed to kill me, 'cause we ain't battlin'!"

"Wait—_what_—?!"

"We ain't allowed to kill durin' peace times!"

"Oi, I'm allowed t'_defend my fuckin' base_! Forget the base, actually—my _apple tree_!"

"Look, dude, mate, bloke, dinkum Aussie, whatever the fuck—I—I'm new, alright?! Seriously, I just got shipped out here today, I was just walkin' around, I—I don't even know where I am—!"

"You colourblind or jus' _stupid_, kid?! Couldn't ya see the lack o'_blue_ 'round here?!"

"I didn't have no fuckin' idea!" Scout fibs nervously, even at the risk of it making him sound stupid. He'd trade intelligence for the worth of his life this man's eyes easily.

"So then y're new on base 'nd then y'just climb about in my tree in enemy territory, _shocked_ when maybe I've got a gun aimed at ya?!"

"Dude, don't talk to me like that, I'll fuck you up—!"

"Yeah, roight—_ah'll fawk ya awp_," Sniper repeats mockingly in the best Bostonian accent he can muster.

"Hey, don't fuck with me, I've been to jail!"

"_Ooo, Jail!_ Wot'd ya _do_, steal a pack o'gum from a candy store?! 'M I s'pposed t'give ya _respect_ or whatever the lingo is?!"

Scout says nothing, glaring down at the man, who long since dropped the shotgun, much too heated by Scout's words to properly hold the firearm, much less pay attention to doing so.

"'M I s'pposed t'be intimidated by a fourteen year old unarmed _stick_ who prolly spent his whole time playin' jailhouse _cum dumpster_ 'nd gettin' plowed by inmates twice his size?!" Sniper sneers, hands on his hips, scowling up at the pouting young man who still sits tangled in the tree's branches, picking moodily at the fruit.

"I NEVER EVEN GOT FUCKED IN PRISON—!"

"Hmph, likely story, y'look like y've taken more cocks than _medicine_ through that mouth o'yours, kid—"

"You lookin' to get your fuckin' ass kicked?! 'Cause I'll kick your ass—"

"_Ah'll kick yowr ayus_!" Sniper mimicks him, laughing heartily. "Y'ever shot'nd killed a man in cold blood, kid?!" Sniper spits darkly in a low growl.

"Y'ever even held a _gun_?!"

"What does it matter to _you_, you fuckin' windbag…"

"It—it _doesn't_, really, 's jus' that some random little shit head with the world's mos' _annoyin'_ accent I've ever heard in my life is sittin' in the tree _I_ planted, stealin' _my_ fruit in threatenin' t'beat _me_ up—I bet y'can't even come down here t'do it!"

"You wanna see me kick your ass?! 'Cause I will—"

"Go for it," Sniper smiles devilishly, a few silent seconds passing by.

"Why don't ya jus' get down from there?! Come'nd _kick my arse_!"

"It's _ass_—and—Icangtdrn…."

"Wotwasat?" Sniper asks, fanning a hand against his ear.

"I'm—I'm _stuck_…" Scout snaps in a quiet whisper, wincing as he goes to place his ankle against the branch to support his slide down. "I can't get down..."

"Y—y'need help…?" the Australian asks awkwardly, not sure where exactly the fundamental issue of _helping_ a potentially hostile enemy found snooping the perimeters of RED down from a tree so he could kick his ass lied exactly.

"Fuck off man, I got it,"

"Whoa, 'lright then; I try t'be nice'nd I get 'tude, I can't wait t'kill your arse next mission—if you can even make it outta the tree t'begin with,"

"Fuck off, I got it I said!" Scout snaps again, grunting as placing weight on his sprained ankle sends waves of pain throughout his body.

"Musta sprained it comin' down tryin' t'_beat me up…_"

"Okay, I get it," Scout hisses, inching his way down slowly, surprised as a pair of hands actually assist him back to the ground, Scout catching sight of the man's incredibly hairy forearms.

"Y'know what, forget it—I helped ya outta the tree like a little kittten—y'can't ever claim t'be able t'kick my _anythin'_ again, mate,"

Scout ignores him, picking up the fruit he'd dropped to the ground before, tucking them against his chest, moving about gingerly.

"The _nerve_ o'you, mate. The absolute _nerve_ o'ya,"

Scout shakes his head, saying nothing.

"Climbin' the fence into enemy territory, threatenin' t'beat me up, tellin' me t'piss off even when I don't _kill_ ya like I should, 'nd then you steal my fruit without a word,"

The man actually goes _back inside_ the base, much to Scout's surprise, the young man standing silently for a few seconds before continuing his picking.

"'Ere." The man shoves a plastic bag under his nose, holding it open as the weight of the apples tumbling inside stretch the material.

"You owe me," the Australian tosses the bag which Scout catches loosely, pressing it tightly against his chest.

"I'm gonna give you five minutes t'get the fuck outta here'nd never come back, ya hear me?!" Sniper growls, his grip on Scout's front aggressive though not immediately threatening. "If I catch ya anywhere on this base or near my tree again, I'm shootin' your bloody head off, mate. You're lucky I don't shoot newsies on their first day when we're not even on a _mission_—even luckier for ya my ego isn't so damaged that I'd take any pleasure or worth outta your frag," he spits, Scout gripping onto the white plastic so harsly holes tear in the fabric.

"Now get the fuck outta here; scram."


	35. Corrupted Jurisdiction

"Hey, yo, wombat—"

The voice Sniper could identify as only being Scout's seems, even though light if not marginally hesitant, as if his statement were a warning of his impending chatter, an inquiry of whether or not Sniper wanted to hear it to begin with.

"That was some good shootin' today."

Sniper scoffs, the right side of his thin mouth caught in a haughty smirk as if the corner of his lip were being tugged by an imaginary fishing line; is this what Scout had snuck out of his base and into Sniper's own to tell him?! That he'd done a good job of dominating him?! Like he need to be _told_. It was a waste of Scout's time to sneak into the nest to tell him, and a waste of Sniper's to hear it.

"Y'reckon? Certainly ain't like ya t'recognise mastery when y'see it,"

"I didn't say you were a fuckin' _master_, I just said you weren't too bad out there..."

"'Nd since when're _you_ the authority o'expert marksmanship? You've only had the four missions, 'nd only three of 'em didn't require me savin' your arse!"

"That wasn't _savin'_ me, that was tuggin' on my shirt and pullin' me back! You're givin' yourself too much credit,"

"Last time I checked it was _you_ who started dishin' me compliments, I'm not givin' myself any _credit_ you didn't already give me; I'm jus' supportin' ya,"

"Whatever,"

"So what is it y'want, Scout?"

"I dunno, I guess-I guess I just kinda thought I should tell ya good job on the domination,"

"You?! Bein' a good sport? 'S this all about all o'sudden?!" Sniper chuckles, sighing heavily, his back still turned to the young man. "Or wait, I sense a breakdown in three…two…one—"

"Nice job on the domination you didn't fuckin' _deserve_"

"There we are, was wonderin' why you snuck 'cross what may as well be a _minefield_ t'give me praise, didn't seem anythin' like you,"

"You don't even _know_ me!"

"There's a lot I've learned in the last three weeks, 'specially 'cause you always like poppin' up wherever I am for some strange reason—"

"The fuck does that even _mean_—?!"

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you've taken quite a fancy to me,"

"A _what_—"

"A _fancy_—seems t'me like you spend more time chattin' me up than you do in your own _base_,"

"What's that got t'do with fancies or dominations you didn't earn?!"

"Nice way t'avoid my point,"

"Plus it goes both ways, dude—"

"There ain't any BLUs whose ear you can talk off on your side o'the ravine—?!"

"You never kick me out or tell me to go away—"

"'Course I do, y'just talk over me so you don't _hear_ me tell ya t'scram—"  
>"'Nd you never kill me when I find ya—"<p>

"I ain't gonna get rid o'my rival so quickly, now! You're the first Scout in ages, 's nice for the target practice,"

"So that's it, huh? I'm just target practice?!" Scout's smile actually fades, the young man nodding in solemn disgust as he looks unto the completely unphased Sniper.

"Y'sound _disheartened_, Scout,"

"I didn't know you just _objectified_ me…"

"So _what_, y'actually heart broken I don't really give two shits about ya?!"

"No, 'cause I don't give two shits about _you_ neither!" Scout snaps quickly, grimacing at the Australian.

"Seriously, you're a fuckin' crazy, British—_thing_—"

"I _thought_ we established that I ain't one o'them pommys already…"

"You're British as long as I'm _target practice_!"

"Listen—Scout—you're _annoyin'_ me, mate. D'you mind, I dunno, _leavin'_?"

"Not until you take back that fuckin' domination!"

"_That I earned_—"

"I had my foot stuck in that dirt! It was a cheap shot and you know it!"

"Try duckin' next time!"

"I—I _did_—"

"The only reason why I didn't shoot ya in the head outright's 'cause I don't wanna take out my newsie rival in the first month!"

"I thought I said to quit callin' me a newsie," Scout snaps, his voice rising with frustration.

"You've barely been out here three weeks, now, I reckon I oughta milk the nickname for what it's worth before you really_aren't_ one—you'll be celebratin' your first year anniversary b'fore you know it,"

"It ain't like I'm some newborn kitten—!"

"'Course not, kittens're cute…"

"You sayin' I ain't cute?!"

"I'm sayin' kittens're cute 'nd you are most certainly _not_ a kitten,"

"I mean, you ever see me with my shirt off? 'Cause it's pretty awesome, pretty damn _cute_, even…"

"Spare me, kid, no one wants t'see your pale, scrawny chest…" Sniper waves a hand of dismissal, hoisting himself off the crate he sits. The wooden planks of the nest floor creak as he stands to formally look at the Bostonian who'd made himself comfortable on the floor some time ago.

"Fuck off, I ain't—I ain't—_scrawny_"

"I mean, you've gained a little bit o'sun, I can see your little _tan line_ 'round your sleeves 'nd collar, but otherwise y'still look like a—"

"_What_ Dingo, what do I look like?!" he snaps threateningly, scowling as Sniper chuckles lightly.

"A brat beggin' me t'take back the domination,"

"Seriously, I had my foot in the dirt!"

"What about when you whacked me with that stupid bloody _baseball_ 'nd I was rubbin' my head for forty minutes?! Y'just walked right past _me_ 'nd took the intel anyway!"

"Learn to _duck_,"

"Usin' my own words against me…"

"They ain't so cute, are they?"

"Look, mate, you can spout everythin' I say back t'me like the toddler ya are—"

"I ain't no toddler—!"

"But if I take that domination back you'll never learn the virtue of graciously acceptin' defeat,"

"You fuckin' kiddin' me?!"

"I mean it, mate, chivalry 'nd respect on the battlefield might be the very things t'keep you alive,"

"Now you're just bullshittin' me, ain't _you_ the one callin' people wankers?!"

"I only call _you_ a wanker!"

"And then you're gonna have the nerve to say I be chivalrous to _you_,"

"_'S not my fault you're a wanker_!"

"No one likes a spoiled sport…"

"I ain't bein' spoiled, I just don't think your ass is teachin' me no virtues; More like the virtue of bein' fuckin' cheated!"

"Bein' bested ain't gettin' _cheated_, now you be thankful I didn't shoot your head off like I shoulda three weeks ago when you were in my tree!"

"Yeah, 'cause shootin' the new guy when he's stuck is _really_ a sign of your badass snipin' skills,"

"Oi, maybe if you hadn't been gapin' up at me y'woulda noticed the pile o'sludge!"

"_Gapin'_?"

"Yeah, _gapin'_, y'caught me in my nest 'nd as soon as it hit ya I was shirtless y'couldn't even look away!"

"B-_bullshit_—"

"'S not bullshit 'cause it's true, for one; besides, 's no shame in admirin' a nice figure,"

"So you're seriously sayin' that the reason I got stuck in the mud was 'cause I saw you shirtless and couldn't look away?"

"Well when y'put it _that_ way you make it sound like I'm makin' it up, when _really_ I'm jus' goin' off facts, kid…"

"Whatever, you ain't even all that impressive, dude…" Scout snaps, folding his arms.

"So you're basically admittin' you were starin'—"

"I caught a _glimpse_, but that ain't the same as _starin'_—"

But he had been staring that day; Sniper's well toned, shirtless frame had caught his eye for more than a seconds' glance, the silent admiration having earned him a third shot from the man, and his first domination. He couldn't help himself; his enemy simply had an admirable figure about him, one that inspired Scout to perhaps lift some weights when the mission was over. It was more of an _appreciation_, in his mind. Not staring. It isn't until the van jumps, temporarily disheveled and unbalanced as its wheel catches in one of the many ditches running along the horribly paved road, that Scout realizes that he stares at the Australian now even some three years later.

Sniper of Scout's memory had sat with an impossibly straight back and a summer darkened figure, rifle scope aligned pointedly against his eye, his lips kissing the cool metal. His smile, ripe with assurance, slathered in madness, pushed his cheeks upward so they had lifted the physical frame of the man's glasses, digging into dimples…

The man before him now, however, cuffed and subdued in his transportation bound for that what the man had only preemptively inferred to be certain death, Scout finds harder to believe is the very one he'd once held to be an unbreakable man confident of his own superiority. Neither him nor Luc had spoken since the departure back to the Administrator's, well, Scout had no idea whether to rightly address it as _headquarters_, or _base_—

Almost as if unified and bound to the will of some unspoken pact, the three were much too caught up in their vacant stares at their bound wrists to actually speak their shared dread into any sort of verbal existence. Neither of them had to actually bother with words as it was anyway, it wasn't as if the danger of what was to come wasn't readily apparent to any of them.

Regardless, Scout wishes Sniper would say _something_; he finds that it all becomes so much harder to bear when the only sounds his body allows him to hear are those of the wagon's engine and tires against the baking asphalt outside, the only smell the gas and its sickly seep from the tailpipe in the form of noxious clouds. The only focus, Scout concludes with a heavy swallow, being the vehicle and its inevitability in the prolonged concourse—and arrival to the destination.

"Lawrence…" Sniper whispers, wary that the volume of his voice does not penetrate the metal of the van, alerting the driver of potential conspiracy.

Scout looks up, meeting the man's gaze. He appears tired and flushed, though a distinct fight still rests undoused in his eyes, his teeth grinding together as he formulates the remainder of his thoughts as if on a countdown. "We still have a chance t'get out, love; we can still run…"

It wasn't a statement, it was Sniper _pleading_. His voice is remarkably even, Scout notes, for half the reason Scout decides to keep silent is because he knows there would hardly be a voice left to his name, its tone drained from anticipation.

"Lawrence, you know I'll never leave you—that'll always be by your side, no matter what—" the van jumps once more, the men grunting as the shock of the tire hitting the ground uproots them briefly.

"But I can't jus' sit here 'nd ride with ya to your death, love," Sniper snaps, shaking his head seconds later as if the thought threatened to enrage him should he not quash it. "I just can't."

"So what do you want me to do, Jack?" Scout sighs, lifting his shackled wrists so Sniper can better see them, taking notice of Luc's attentive glance at the two from the corner of his eye.

"I don't know, love…" Sniper slumps back against the wall of the wagon, and as the man allows his eyes to close and his breath to escape his nostrils in heavy resignation, Scout instantly comes to regret the snappy nature of his response.

"I jus'—I thought bein' with me meant more to ya, that y'had more fight in ya—"

"What, you tryin' to say I just _gave up_?! That I just _turned myself in_ 'cause I didn't feel like runnin' anymore?!" Scout growls, his insensitive shortness with the Australian flaring up again.

"Sure is what it looked like t'me back there…"

"Well maybe you need to get your eyes checked,"

"We were ready t'fight for you, _love_—Me, 'nd Luc, 'nd your Doc—we were ready to abandon everythin' 'nd never come back—Hell, we were even ready t'lose our _lives_ if it meant keepin' you outta that woman's hands!"

"Jack…" Luc sighs, both with the intention to interject his distaste over the rising argument and volume of Sniper's voice.

"Jack nothin', mate, I'm askin' a _completely_ valid question 'nd I want the answer!" he snaps back, rounding on the Bostonian once more, who meets Sniper's aggressive glare with one of his own. "'Nd frankly if you don't see a problem with why we're currently _sittin'_ here in this _Goddamned_ armoured car, then y'might need t'get your head checked—"

"Zhere is absolutely no need to insinuate zhat I am mentally _deficient_—"

"D'you not understand what you _mean_ t'me, Lawrence?! How many times do I gotta tell ya I love you 'til y'finally get it, mongrel—"

"I dunno why you're talkin' to me like I'm fuckin' _stupid_—"

"Because you've got the lives o'three people who care about you more than damn near _anythin'_ doin' everything they can t'keep you alive, 'nd you're just turnin' yourself into death without even so much as a glance back at us—!"

"Why do you keep sayin' that like I'm supposed to feel _bad_?! These were _your_ choices, Jack! If it were up to me _none_ o'ya would be involved!"

"Yeah, 'nd not gettin' us involved is the reason why it's as bad as it is, 'case you _forgot_,"

"Haven't you bitched at me enough?! Okay, I get it, I shoulda _told_ you, you three're riskin' your _lives_, I've heard it all already!"

"Riskin'?! More like breakin' our necks t'keep you alive, 'nd you just _throw your wrists out_ for her men t'cuff ya! Y'jus' let us get arrested, y'didn't even try t'put up a fight!"

"So what is it that's got your fuckin' slacks in a knot?! Maybe it's hittin' ya that swearin' to _be by my side_ is more than you bargained for, huh?! Too much adventure for ya?! Well It's a little too late for you to back out now, Jack, there's no way you're gonna escape from this without shit hittin' some o'your fan, too—"

"This isn't about _me_, Lawrence! I don't fear _me_ dyin', 's you I'm about ready t'have a heart attack over! I don't give two shits or _whose_ fan they _hit_ 'bout what any o'this means for me, 'nd you're bloody stupid if you think's what's got me bothered! Try the fact that y'just _turned yourself in_, 'nd that she'll kill you as soon as we arrive at her headquarters! As soon she gets the chance!"

"Jack, zhere is no guarantee zhat we will not 'ave a fighting chance to escape once we are released,"

"'Nd here I was, thinkin' that the _whole bloody idea_ was t'not get ourselves turned in t'begin with! Silly _fuckin'_ me!"

"Trust me, Jack, I 'ave made a living zhe past twenty years as a spy, and playing zhe part of complacency is sometimes zhe best course of action! Often times I choose to come quietly, only to make a daring escape once captured! 'Ad we resisted any furzher back zhere on zhe road it would have ended in a shootout, wizh all zhree of us _killed_!"

"'Specially with the way _you're_ just shootin', callin' people cunts and throwin' shit—if I hadn't turned myself in she would've told those guys to execute you! 'Nd even if we ran and got away, you're so fuckin' _hysterical_, we wouldn't have lasted a day on the run together Jack and you know it!"

"What—?"

Scout is shocked to see the man raises his eyebrows sheepishly, the look on his face better expressing his silent thought of "What have I done…" than any of his words could.

"What d'you mean _hysterical_?!"

"I mean that we woulda ended up in a car chase in your death trap van, or that you woulda ended up labelin' us as terrorists or gettin' us shot and killed if we'd kept runnin'! I ain't sayin' that to attack you, but you can't act like it's all my fault!"

"I ain't tryin' _t'blame_ you, love, I just—fuck, I just don't _know, alright_?!"

"It is understandable zhe zhreats facing Lawrence scare and infuriate you," Luc clears his throat, sharing a quick glance with his frowning stepson.

"I know you love me, Jack, that wasn't ever even a fuckin' _question_; but you were really tiptoein' on a line back there, and I wasn't just gonna keep lettin' Dmitri rile you up, and they were gonna _shoot_ if you did one more thing, and—" Scout chokes. "_Trust_ me, I know how it feels, not givin' two shits about yourself 'cause you're too busy losin' your mind over someone else. If they had touched you back there I woulda lost my shit, Jack. I _know_ what you're doin' for me, and fuck if I'm gonna let anything happen to you because of it," Scout explains softly glaring passive aggressively into Sniper's eyes. Catching his balance carefully, Scout inches his way over to the other side of the van so that he may sit next to Sniper. The young man rests his head against the Australian's shoulder, facial muscles tense with silent worry.

"It ain't over 'til it's over—she's gonna wanna get to the bottom o'all this before she just does me in—if she even gets the chance to,"

"You're _real_ dense if y'think that bitch is gonna get 'er hands on ya,"

"I 'ope I am as dense as you imply…" Luc sighs from the other part of the wagon.

"I mean it, Luc—I'll torch the place if she even _nears_ him—"

"Yeah, see, Jack, that's the kinda shit I can't have—"

"So I'm just s'pposed t'just—_let 'er waltz off with my Lawrence, no big bloody deal!_"

"_Non_, Jack, we are to keep calm and approach zhis in a manner zhat will keep us _alive_; zhat includes keeping 'im from 'er as_well_ as not getting ourselves executed for going _ballistic_ in zhe process!"

"Seriously, Jack, if you're pissed 'cause you think _I_ just turned myself in, then you don't have no fuckin' idea how it felt for me to watch you hammer the nails into your own coffin…"

"What d'you mean?!"

"'E's saying zhat 'e turned 'imself in so zhat zhe Administrator's men would not shoot you,"

"_WHAT_—?!"

"I mean—more or less…"

"Lawrence, maybe I was tryin' t'cause a scene while you run or somethin'—!"

"Bullshit, like I'd ever run without you!" Scout snaps, insulted Sniper would even suggest such a thing.

"As if Jack would ever let you go…"

"Admit it, you were losin' your mind back there!"

"Yeah—_well…_"

"So was I," Scout sighs, and despite all that awaits him he musters a small, halfhearted smile, leaning affectionately against the Australian. "You drive me up a fuckin' _wall_, Snipes…"

The three are silent for an undisclosed amount of time, Sniper much too focused on the young man who lies against him entirely to bring his eyes away from him and onto the fully functioning watch on his wrist.

"So it's 'cause of me y'turned yourself in?"

"Don't think of it that way,"

"Well I ain't leavin' ya, no matter what happens; I don't care if she throws ya in a fiery pit, I'm jumpin' in after ya…"

"It ain't gotta resort to that, Jack, we're gonna get through this without pits'n shit, alright...?"

"Right, but there's one thing I'ma need the two o'ya t'get straight—no matter _what_ happens, I ain't leavin' Lawrence's side, y'hear me? Both o'ya—I don't care if the Administrator has a gun pointed at my head sayin'—"

"I don't give a fuck what she's tellin' you to do, if she's got a gun to your head you better do what she says," Scout grunts.

"You two are like a _spiral_ wizh zhis, "I can sacrifice myself better zhan you can", just stay calm and I promise zhings will be alright—we are 'er most loyal and efficient mercenaries, I assure you she will not be so quick to cast us aside—zhat we will leave wizhout punishment, I 'ighly doubt, but killing us, despite your sentence, Lawrence, I am quite certain she will want to avoid at all costs."

-

"Look at them, Miss Pauling! We cart them to their own deaths and they _still_ insist on _lying_ together in such close proximity! How does it feel to be a glaring third wheel, Lucien?"

The instant Sniper opens his mouth to spit undoubtedly scathing words at the Italian, Scout deters the man from actually speaking with a single glare up at him. Instead the Australian presses his lips together firmly, eyes narrowed with an aggression so fierce there was no doubt Dmitri would have been ripped to shreds were Jack's wrists not linked together.

"They aren't even trying to _hide_ it anymore! Do come out, boys, there is no reason to be scared!" Dmitri sings, beaming at the two who lie against the other, nestled into a comfortable corner.

"Miss Pauling, Luc, Lawrence, and his Bushman refuse to come out despite direct orders! This is your last warning for you three to come out of there before I will have these men resort to force!"

"Mr. Marino I appreciate your efforts muchly, however I can handle this myself. It would be a great help if you were to simply wait for myself and the prisoners inside after informing Miss Ingram of our return," the bespectacled woman speaks in kind, soft words, as if afraid anything of a darker tone the Italian would be unable to process. "Mr. Fitzpatrick I am going to need you to step out of the vehicle—"

"If he's goin' I'm goin', lady—"

"Understandable, however refusal to comply with my request—"

"I'll comply 's long as when we exit this vehicle I'm by Lawrence's side! It doesn't get simpler than that," Sniper snaps, Miss Pauling raising her arms innocently.

"This is fine by me, Miss Ingram wanted to see you three together as it was,"  
>"'T'<em>Hell<em> with what _Miss Ingram_ wants!"

"Jack…" Luc growls remindingly, the Australian tailing Scout as the young man emerges slowly from the cargo bay. "Remember your temper,"

Sniper growls, casting a glance at the large building that awaits them, nestled in between plateaus and rigid badlands.

"DON'T YOU PUT YOUR HANDS ON HIM—!" Sniper roars as Miss Pauling grips onto the Bostonian, twisting him and running her dainty hands along his body.

"Mr. Mundy _please_, I am only checking him for concealed weapons," the woman sighs, not at all insensitive to Jack's protective presence bearing over her as she does so. "I do not seek to hurt any of you, Mr. Mundy, and as you are hand cuffed, there would not be much for you to do if this were not the case—"

"Y'think I wouldn't find a way t'tear your head off, dollface?!"

"Jack…"

"Sorry, love,"

"Mr. Mundy if you do not calm down I am afraid I will have to separate the two of you,"

"Jack, just calm down…" Scout whispers at the man next to him, Luc incredulously silent himself.

"'Nd what d'you think that's for?!" Sniper snaps as the woman produces black bandanas from a small purse, though she takes her time in responding.

"It is simply to conceal the whereabouts of the Administrator's headquarters." Miss Pauling explains casually, wrapping a black cloth around Scout's eyes, the action clearly enraging Sniper, the man however remaining calm. "A mere safety precaution,"

"Yeah, for _whose_ safety?" the man spits; did the woman not know that, if the Administrator should have her way, the two of them would not be leaving the building alive?

"Clients, whether contracted as mercenaries or otherwise, are not to know the location of the Administrator's Southwestern headquarters,"

"Just let it go…" Lawrence whispers, and Sniper sighs as the woman stands on tiptoe to tie another of the same band around the Australian's eyes.

"Hands out—I am only tying your wrists to simplify the process of leading you to the building, Mr. Mundy…"

"Go 'head'nd lead us to the firin' squad, Miss, I promise not t'cause too much trouble…"

Miss Pauling finds the wide snarl and the diabolical intent of its width to be momentarily stunning with its impact. A man who would laugh and grin at the thought of being led to death—she found Sniper's humourous regard for the situation beyond unnerving, and wholly irreconcilable; then again the Administrator had warned her she was dealing with mad men, with killers, to rationalize them would be effortless.

Still, as she leads the men through a pair of wide, uninteresting metal doors with the slight tug of her rope that wraps itself around Luc's wrist, she looks about the entering atrium of her workplace, tugging again on Luc's hand and jumpstarting the human train further along its trek.

"Please watch your steps, as we will be approaching downward steps in a few moments' time."

Scout lets out a soft gasp of surprise, his feet suddenly plummeting below as he reaches the initial decension, the weight of Luc pulling him forward catching his stumble before it ends painfully.

"This way, please,"

As if any of them had a choice in which direction they were headed. Still, Scout jumps as a door actually _closes_ behind them, the veil lifting itself from his eyes by careful, thin hands.

"Hmph—so what is this, your gas chamber?" Sniper snarls, taking a disgusted look about the rectangular room Miss Pauling has corralled them into. To Scout it appeared to be as simple as a conference room; windowless, slate painted concrete walls surround them, a wooden table in the middle of it, with four neat chairs pushed in on each side.

"So a traumatic _death_ by table, eh? I must admit I _am_ jus' a little curious t'see how you plant t'go about it," Sniper chuckles, Miss Pauling flashing her eyes at the cynical Australian, ignoring his comment.

"I was instructed to hold you here until the Administrator is ready to hear your case,"

"_Hear our case_? Well isn't _this_ a pleasant surprise," Sniper spits cheerfully, the mousey woman checking the room for exploitable means of escape.

"I am going to remove your restraints, however attempting to attack me and escape would be futile; the entirety of the base is on lockdown and Miss Ingram's guards have been alerted that prisoners with a murderous history are being held captive in these very halls,"

"Oh no, Miss, we'd _never_ attempt t'escape, not after _all_ that hard work you 'nd your boys went through t'bring us here…."

"Mister Mundy, please," the woman sighs, stepping back as she unlocks Sniper's handcuffs, the man however holding his hands up innocently, coupled with a highly faked smile.

"'S'alright, I ain't tryin' nothin'…"

"Should you try _anything_ you will be cuffed and isolated, Mister Mundy," the woman tisks, Scout twisting his now freed wrists, Sniper taking the young man's hand into his and pulling him towards him. Luc flashes Jack a critical glare, hoping it deters him from making any irrational decisions.

"You _have_ Mister Fitzpatrick and the three of you are safe and sound, there is no reason to eye me so, Mister Mundy—"

"You getting' a tude with me miss?!" Sniper growls, Scout's grip on his front clenching into the fabric of his vest, the young man silently willing for Sniper to drop the accusation. He does just this, All four heads turn quickly as the large metal door swings open with a weighted moan, Dmitri's suited frame and smiling profile cocked back in contemptuous satisfaction wasting no time in presenting itself.

"Oh, I have finally found you! This place is like a _maze_—These lads giving you trouble, Pauling?" the Italian chuckles quickly. "The _Sniper_ I know has a tendency to bite if provoked, though _honestly_ it shouldn't be _your_ job to play babysitter to these lunatics! No, a lady of your beauty would be much better suited upstairs, far away from these _madmen_ and out of harm's way! Just _look_ at how they eye you, darling, with that feral _lust_ in their eyes that speak to their libidos, coaxed out of them by your curvy nature,"

"'Ow often 'ave such _stunning_ lines earned you zhe 'eart of a woman, Marino?" Luc rolls his eyes, Dmitri rounding his smile on the Frenchman.

"It's not a question of quantity but _quality_, Rousseau, and I can certainly say that it is not _I_ fucking the sloppy, middle aged seconds of Boston—"

"_THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY ABOUT MY MOTHER_—?!"

"Calm down, Lawrence, 'e only means to rile you up…" Luc snarls, though clearly furious at Dmitri's words himself, his command to "calm down" a reminder that he too should keep his temper even.

"As I was saying, it's almost _cruel_ the way you unknowingly seduce _Little Larry_, here, Miss Pauling. I'm certain the Bushman doesn't appreciate the way you so easily sway the eyes of his lover!"

Scout would rather Sniper's fingers dig into his arms and shoulders the way they do, soaking up his growing anger at Dmitri's taunting, especially if the alternative meant Jack should lose control of his temper and attack his mocker.

"It's awfully unfair of you to lead the Bushman on this way, Larry; I know on the battlefield one typically has to _make do_ if it means feeling the touch of another, and for that I cannot blame you for fucking the man! But what are you to do when the war is over and you have a pining Australian at your heels—?!"

"Mister Marino _please_ cease the provocation of the prisoners, I cannot risk them hurting you or attempting to escape in an outbreak of violence—"

"Escape? If they knew of the hordes of armed men _dying_ for the excitement of a showdown, I assure you the thought of_escaping_ would be nothing more than a fallacy in their minds—besides, wasn't the condition the Bushman got to hold onto his Larry as long as he remained well behaved for the duration of the trial? I get the feeling as long as he wants to hold onto the little tyke he's going to remain passive,"

"Well could you at the very least close the door?"

"Not quite, Miss—_Schmelzer I will not tell you to hurry yourself again_!" Dmitri roars, pulling out a revolver from his breast pocket, firing into the ceiling, the wailing of Heinrich to be heard just a few feet down the hall.

"_MISTER MARINO, HONESTLY—_!"

"If the good doctor would maintain a steady pace I would not need to scare him into doing so!"

"_Has he been interrogated?_" Miss Pauling asks tiredly, growing sick of the Italian and suspending her distaste for the man by talking strictly business.

"I do not know, Miss, was it not _your_ job to keep track?"

"The doctor was brought here before we arrived," she sighs, taking Heinrich into her arms and twisting him around, his wrists cuffed behind his lower back.

"Well, I see our work is done if the plan was to keep them detained here until the Administrator shall have them! Though I can only advise you leave these men and latch the door behind you on your way out, for you honestly have no business locked in a room with uncuffed criminals as a pretty young woman, the first one they've probably seen in _years_…"

"I appreciate your concern, Mister Marino—Mr. Schmelzer, have you yet been interrogated?"

"N—no—"

"Listen to how he whimpers—!"

"Mister Marino that is enough! You four are to remain in this room until summoned, is that understood? Every armed man on duty has direct orders to kill you on sight should you be seen without authorized accompaniment, and your complacency shall speed the process along,"

"Yes, speed along so we can cut to the chase! I am quite a fan of executions myself; never was one for the formalities—well, I bid you all adieu for now, and remember to _behave_ yourselves, the janitorial staff aren't too fond of working overtime to scrub the walls clean of your remains…"

The door bolts and locks behind the two, and Sniper eases his grip on the Bostonian he holds, dark pink indentations peppering where the man's nails had dug grooves into his flesh.

"I absolutely hate that bastard; I hate 'im," is all Sniper can spit, glaring at the door. "If it weren't for you love I woulda ripped his jaw from 'is _neck_…"

"I know, Jack…" Scout closes his eyes, as if exhausted, patting him on the cheek.

"You did well containing yourself, Jack, and continuing to do so will be zhe only zhing zhat shall get us zhrough zhis…"

"Doc…" Scout whispers in a different direction entirely, taking a calm interest in the sweating, anxious German. "Doc, what happened to ya? You ain't hurt, are ya?!"

"Ach, Junge—do not fear for me, all vill be okay…" Heinrich coughs, snatching his glasses from his perspiring face and dabbing at his forehead with the back of his hand.

"What happened?! How the hell'd you even get arrested, dude?"

"I—I haven't so much been _arrested_, zank Goodness; I zink zey saw me more as a _vitness_. I vas in ze Medibay pretending to formulate an autopsy report ven ze Administrator's men stormed ze infirmary and informed me zat ze bodies in my lab vere most likely fakes,"

"What?! So you mean zhey _knew_?!

"And what did you say to that?!"

"I feigned shock; I vas surprised zey saw me as a victim of deceit and not ze deceiver outright, zough I used zeir ignorance to my advantage. I played a good show for you, Junge! I assumed ze role of ze insulted Medic—how _dare_ you interrupt ze delicate procedure, have you no shame, ze body of my friend and comrade is amongst ze dead, zat sort of zing.

By acting inconsolable and affronted by zeir statement zat I could not discern decoy bodies from ze ones I am usually surrounded by, I vas able to buy you time for you escape—zough regardless ze men conceded to have me taken in and questioned, for zey knew Scout specifically vas escaping persecution, and zat ozers were helping him do so, and zat I could prove to be a key part to ze investigation,"

"Fuck, Doc…" Scout sighs, Sniper pulling the Bostonian into a soft hug.

"It is better zan I expected, I assumed zey vould pin me as an accomplice right avay, but zis vay gives me a chance to feign innocence and grow closer to zeir zought process and report back to you vat it is zey are zinking about ze whole deal,"

"So then you weren't interrogated?"

"No, not yet. By time I arrived zere vas vord zat _rat_ had tipped off ze Administrator of your attempted escape from ze Fort and she had all her forces dispatched after you, I vas merely placed into a cell in ze meantime. I believe she vanted to vait until ve vere all before her to conduct any official interrogations,"

"Shit, Doc…" Scout shakes his head from disbelief, plummeting even further into a sense of dread. "Shit…"

"By zhe sound of zhings it is looking as if we may 'ave a chance to resolve it all! I gazher zhey are preparing a trial of sorts,"

"More like she gets us all t'gether in a room to explain t'her what happened before killin' us,"

"_Positivity_, Jack, look it up!"

"Oi! Stayin' _positive_ 'nd shittin' rainbows ain't gonna be what it is that stops Lawrence from gettin' his bloody head cut off! Now I told ya I ain't just gonna sit around 'nd wait for her to call us up to'er death chamber, 'nd I aint sayin' it again. The way I see it, this is our last chance to escape if we're gonna do anythin'—'course, if that's what Lawrence wants…"

"What do you mean what _I_ want?"

"Well I'm not gonna try pushin' outta here if the one I'm pushin' for doesn't want to," Jack chuckles.

"Are you runnin'?"

"'Only if you come with me…"

"…Too bad we didn't get Tavish in on this, these walls're lookin' too thick for us to try and do shit to…" Scout comments, running a hand down the cold, smooth concrete.

"We could always mash the table into the door 'til it breaks down—"

"Mon _Dieu_, do you boys not 'ave _any_ concept of discretion?!" Luc groans, producing his butterfly knife from his breast pocket.

"Holy _shit_, Luc! How do you still have that thing?!"

"I've been captured enough to know 'ow to best conceal weapons," the man beams, strolling toward the metallic door.

"Why didn't you just stab the girl when she uncuffed us?!"

"Rambunctious animals hardly ever escape zhe zoo, you two; no matter what zhey are found and tranquilised. Look at zhis objectively—killing zhe Administrator's _assistant_ would certainly ring a suspicious bell, non? Apart from zhe fact zhat spies only kill when necessary, leaving 'er body would spark attention, attention zhat would follow us right out zhe door. Just because zhis mezhod would allow us to exit zhe premises, it wouldn't be _escape_, for we would 'ave zhe entirety of TF Industries on our asses,"

"Well 'lright," Sniper scoffs, holding his hands up with resignation. "Was jus' a suggestion…"

"If we are to escape wizhout a trail, we are going to need to do zhis discretely, mezhodically, swiftly and efficiently,"

"How hard can it be, Frenchie? You got your PDA, just disguise as Pauling 'nd we'll follow you!"

"I do not 'ave my PDA, Lawrence—and as it is I also do not 'ave a cloaking device, I only 'ave my Dead Ringer…"

"Shit…"

"It most certainly complicates zhings, but does not make zhem impossible…"

"Why don't you just use the ringer t'produce a decoy o'Scout's dead body when she goes t'execute him?!"

"She knows ze difference, as ve have seen, Herr Sniper…" Medic sighs, running his hand across his forehead.

"So zhen we will simply 'ave to rely on stealzh,"

"Alright then, fine," Scout nods, eyeing Jack quietly. "I ain't scared, I know that we can do it…"

"'Einrich are you fit to run? You said she did not 'urt you,"

"I—do not zink I should go,"

"Doc, don't be crazy, of course you're goin'," Scout snaps quickly. "Where else would you go?"

"I fear zat if you run and I go viz you, it proves I am a part of ze plan,"

"Yeah, but she's gonna get it outta ya somehow, Doc, and you can't just sit here and wait for her to crack ya,"

"I can act, Scout, zat I have going for me…"

"You're gonna need t'put on quite a performance, mate. C'mon, jus' come with us, we promise we'll get Mikhail 'nd we'll all hightail it outta here!"

"I feel like escaping viz you vould only succeed in broadening ze conspiracy and vorsen ze extent of your punishment! Besides, if I claim to be a neutral vitness, I can plead your innocence,"

"If you're stayin' you ain't pleadin' _shit_, you're sayin' you don't know anything about this plan or me'nd Jack bein' together," Scout snaps, folding his arms, his face contorted in a threatening anger Medic mentally concludes must be an influence of Jack's; Scout'd probably been the receiver of such glares to be able to imitate it well enough.

"If you're gonna stay and be interrogated by her for our sake, you're sure as Hell gonna do it in a way so that you come outta it alive, Doc…"

"Y'heard 'im; y'don't know _anythin'_ about our plans, about us bein' t'gether—not for our safety, but for _yours_,"

"But Scout, you must understand I do not vant to abandon you completely! I vant to go, to support you, but—!"

"You aint abandonin' me, Doc. You ain't _never_ abandoned me; dude, what you did back there was fuckin' _huge_, or when you healed me that day, when Jack had me, that you never gave us away or treated me bad 'cause I was in love with him…you've been incredible, Deutschbag, and I can't thank you enough," Scout attempts to hide his humble giving of thanks behind his particular favourite insult.

"I know vat it is like, to love ze very one you are meant to kill—a Soldier of ze Reich, togezer viz a Russian Jew…"

"'Nd if you ever wanna see him again you better pretend like you don't have a fuckin' clue what's goin' on, Doc,"

Heinrich simply gapes; naturally the young man's threat, weighted and augmented in its sternness by the intimidating sharpness of his Bostonian accent, does much to even _tame_ the doctor into nodding in agreement.

"You must forgive me, Lawrence, and understand zat it is not out of covardice,"

"I know, man, you've done more than enough—if it weren't for you 'nd Luc comin' up with that plan those dudes woulda put me against the wall and shot my brains out—you bought me _time_, a chance,"

"Lawrence being _rational_…a crazy zhing," Luc shakes his head. "Per'aps zhe lack of nicotine is making me 'allucinate,"

"I hardly believe it myself," Jack grumbles, Scout sticking his tongue out at the two men.

"It's been an honour to serve viz you, Lawrence," Heinrich sighs, placing a heartfelt, fatherly arm on his shoulder.

"You say that like we ain't ever gonna see each other again," Scout attempts to chuckle, though Heinrich can only mirror his gesture half heartedly. He'd long since learned that only worry narrowed Scout's eyes and caused them to waiver as they do now, an unspoken internalization Scout probably never realized his comrade recognised as a telltale sign, that Scout himself probably didn't even know betrayed his ever confident façade.

Though as the steel door opens again and Miss Pauling cuffs them once more, Heinrich can only wonder whether the moments in which the four look each other over in fearful anticipation, whether they truly _were_ to be their last.


	36. Theatrics

The courtroom hardly even deserved the name. The various screens, buzzers, alerts and notice signs that intersperse the grey mortar of the unpainted concrete walls give it all the feel of not a room in which justice was discussed, but more of a diabolically bedecked control room. The rectangular placards stack in winding, symmetrical webs that connect all the way up to the towering ceiling, the lights themselves shut off, thus shadowing the alert board, Scout unable to read the white letters printed boldly across their surfaces.

A singular leather chair rests in front of the machine, control panels and tables surrounding it strategically, particularly within arms' reach of a place to stash an ashtray or flip a switch if necessary. What stuns Scout however, is the vast distance between the single iron door through which they were quietly led, and the Administrator's perch, and the nothing in between, save a brown wooden table identical to the one in the conference room from the basement. The floor, checkered in hypnotizing parallelograms of black and white, seems to expand in sensually deceiving undulations of its physical mass, Scout swallowing and closing his eyes as he falls into the step Miss Pauling sets.

"I've got ya, love…" Sniper whispers in his ear, the low rumbling, though unintelligible, echoing cavernously throughout the Administrator's domain. She was a lot smaller than the woman had appeared in her press releases; Even with her trademark red stilettos whose heels taper to a red point against the cold floor, and the purple pencil skirt that always served to give her calves a slenderness as well as an added visual of height, she couldn't have been much taller than him, if at all.

Her poofed and peppered hair was as vibrant as Scout had always known it to be, however; though these things he remarked when brought to her the first time a week ago. Where his first visit had brought about the calmer, sympathetic side of the aging woman however, Scout finds that a calm fury rests in the faults and creases of her time worn flesh, her legs crossed primly, thin, bony hands pointed expectantly as she faces her persons of intrigue.

She remains silent as Miss Pauling awkwardly extends a hand toward the brown table, gesturing for the men to take their seats in ebbish insecurity.

"'S this your first time witnessin' an execution?" Sniper asks in mock inquisition, Miss Pauling ignoring him outright. His smile falters however as he studies Luc next to him, his blonde hair falling in front of his flushed face, his white teeth chewing contemplatively on his pink lips, head bowed.

_'Mus' still be tryin' t'think of a way t'get outta here…'_ Sniper notes, swiveling his head to quickly observe Scout next to him, his breath catching in his throat when he sees the young man stares back at him feverishly, reaching to grab his hand under the table.

"…Shall I begin?" Miss Pauling asks smally of the woman after a long silence, taking a few steps forward, tightening her grip around the thick folders she holds in her arm. The older woman answers her question with a disgruntled wave of her hand, her eyes sweeping about the room briskly.

"Lawrence Broderick William Fitzpatrick…" Miss Pauling clears her throat, Scout lifting his head instantly at the sound of his name. "…born August 3rd, 1943 to Julie Marie Fitzpatrick, maiden name _Mathers_ and Arnold Broderick Fitzpatrick—You have been summoned here on the afternoon of July 31st, 1968—" she makes a pause to press her glasses so they rest comfortably against the bridge of her nose, bringing the paper off which she reads closer to her eyes. The Administrator watches them all coldly and silently, her furrowed brow crease like thin slopes, unnerving Scout deeply—

"Under the accusation of indulging in the unlawful acts of fraternization, fornication, romantization, and seduction on behalf of Jack Sweetwater Mundy, born April 17th, 1931 to Reginald Arthur Mu—"

"Good _Lord_, Miss, do you not know a _thing_ about proper trial etiquette?!" the unmistakable voice of Dmitri gasps from the entrance of the room, hands in his trouser pockets as he brings his legs to swing in a haughty swagger to the center with the others.

"Forget the _etiquette_ even—it's all about _delivery_! Leave it to a woman to bore down what could be the final moments of these mens' lives into something only _slightly_ less interesting as my Grandmother reading from her Bible—ah now, Bushman, do not rise," Dmitri chuckles as he produces the same silver revolver from his breast pocket.

"It would be a shame if I had to silence you before you had the chance to plead your case,"

"Marino, what do you mean with thisnonsense?!" The Administrator snaps in a rasp of a voice, resting her head in her hands, her finger tips clawing down her cheeks tediously as if the Italian's presence was a chore. "And put the gun away, you have no authority here," she spits, the man tucking the revolver back into his dresscoat.

"Nothing you don't, Miss Ingram, simply that Pauling here is repeating what we already _know_—I seem to recall we have already discussed Larry's infidelity just last week, and that I had provided irrefutable evidence along with this claim—"

"THOSE PICTURES WERE FAKED, YOU BLOODY WOG—!"

"And that you proposed Larry with the ultimatum of taking either Mundy's life or else having his own taken from _him_—we're all_gathered_ here today to discuss what shall come to pass now he has refused to do the man in—"

"Y'DISGUISED AS ME 'ND _RAPED_ HIM, YOU RAT—"

"Can we not have this Bushman silenced? Honestly?!" Dmitri rolls his eyes, gesturing wildly at the murderous Australian. "Honestly, he's tried killing me twice today, and all he does is _interrupt_ me when I try to speak…" the Italian tisks softly by suckling his tongue against his teeth.

"Besides, Mr. Mundy, it wasn't _rape_ if the boy wanted it," Dmitri smirks at the man whom Scout restrains, Miss Pauling bringing her hands to cover her gasping mouth.

"I'LL FUCKIN' KILL YOU—!"

"You lay a finger on me and _Larry_ gets it, and I don't need a verdict to pull the trigger…" Dmitri threatens, aiming his revolver at Scout's temple, turning his head quickly to make sure the Administrator does not object to his actions.

"Now as I was saying, Miss Pauling, the way you're leading us you're implying that we have not already discussed Little Larry's perversions and how to best punish him; though honestly—"

"If you are _done_, Marino, I must make it quite clear that your pathetic attempt at monologuing is a bigger waste of time than Pauling recapping last week's trial," The Administrator spits. "Enough with the flamboyant theatrics."

"Funny you should mention it, Miss Ingram, I too planned on moving onto a new topic entirely—if I may," he asks kindly of Miss Pauling, who jumps as he turns his head in her direction. "We have already interrogated Lawrence in an attempt to divulge the details of his treacherous relationship with the Bushman, only for him to stretch things out and deny it outright! Hard evidence however proved nothing but his case was built on a conglomerate of half assed _lies_. That said, I feel that today's session should not start with the young man—we know what his crimes are, and we _know_ he's guilty—his _doctor_, on the other hand, is a person of interest and we could easily get to the bottom of things if we press as we did Larry," Dmitri smiles wickedly, leaning an arm against the table.

"Look at how he _shivers_ when you mention him, would a guilty man shiver, Miss Ingram?" Dmitri asks sweetly, clearing his throat at the woman's expression.

"Ahem—Dmitri Del Piero Marino, born November 9th, 1936 to Alessandro Franciso Marino and Bettina Adalina Marino, maiden name Di'Giantonio—that's me—humbly requests permission to question a mister—oh pardon me, _Herr_ Heinrich Berthold Schmelzer, born December 22nd, 1921 to a—you know what forget it these German names are ridiculous—"

"_Get on with it, Marino_—!"

"At once, Miss Ingram, of course!" Dmitri chuckles nervously, snatching Miss Pauling's meticulously organized folder and slamming it in front of Medic, who jumps and wails at the thwack of the envelope and its subsequent reverberation off the walls.

"And namely in the company of the others, I want to _see_ this man crack…"

"Do _not_ waste my time with this…" the Administrator snaps, leaning her chin in the palm of her hand.

"Ahem—born in Stuttgart, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany—a Southern German through and through I see—now let's take a look at your _history_, shall we? According to your file here we see you studied at _Schloss Hoheinheim_ under the discipline of_Ernährungsmedizin_ until being drafted into the Wehrmacht to serve as a field medic on the Eastern Front in 1943. Funny, the Reich must have been desperate for soldiers if a nutritional medicine studies major would get drafted to treat wounds for the ones actually _fighting_," Dmitri sighs, Heinrich's face steeled though the man clearly appears perturbed.

"I see nothing out of the ordinary for a boy of your time—an excellent student, an exceptional young little member of the_Hitler Jugend_—"

"_It vas required of all of us! All ze boys of my class joined, it vas mandatory, my mozer vould have been put under vatch of ze Gestapo had ve protested my indoctrination—!_"

"No, Doctor, I do not mean to question your morals by citing your allegiance to the Fuehrer at such a young age—actually I mean to comment that what _truly_ interests me is this apparent _gap_ in service here, in Winter 1943,"

"I—I vas missing in action. It is zat simple—"

"Do not lie to me, Doctor, I am a Spy, your colleague of many years, and thus know more about you than you know about yourself—let us see if my concept of history is worth the praise I often boast in its behalf! October 15th, 1943, German forces invaded the village of Trevoshka, am I correct? And not just the _German_ forces, but the very company under which you served, no?"

Heinrich nods, Dmitri's smile only growing in size.

"Interesting—now if what I've gathered from you serves to memory, you spent the three weeks of occupation rounding up the Jews in the aforementioned village and _hid_ them, claiming to your commanding officer that no Jews could be accounted for in the village? And that you _burned_ down the municipal building, destroying any social record of there being Jews living there also? Do not fear telling the truth, Herr Doctor, this trial is not the same as Nuremberg—your actions were not arson, they saved hundreds and for that I do not censure you, Herr Doctor, not in the slightest,"

Heinrich nods.

"I—I saved as many as I could in Trevoshka—"

"Your actions saved every Jew in the village if I recall correctly? Your company simply burned the fields, though otherwise they found it uninteresting as there were no _Juden_ to purge and thus you pushed onward? Your unit was simply Wehrmacht, not one of the _Einstatzgruppen_—the slaughtering of Russian _soldiers_ was more up to your tastes than a few illiterate country pesants. Now how about we turn our sights to…_ah_ yes," Dmitri sighs calmly, flipping through a few pages in his file.

"The _gap_ in your service; official German military records have you listed as MIA, as you have not returned to Germany since your deployment in 1943. Apparently on the afternoon of November 2nd, 1943 your company was ambushed by the Red Army and completely obliterated save _you_, for whom they simply have listed as missing in action; seeing as you are sitting here in front of us now, I know that is not the case—now again, Herr Schmelzer, there is nothing to fear with telling the truth. Your past is heroic and most _honourable_, there is no need to deny the truth if the answer to my question lies in the affirmative,"

Heinrich swallows.

"Is it not true that a mister Mikhail Sergeevich Klimov, born February 1st, 1919, former Red Army tank specialist, found and aided you the same night of the ambush?"

Heinrich nods.

"And that he comes from the village of occupied Trevoshka, and that his mother was among the very Jews whom you saved from the camps?"

Heinrich nods again.

"Funny, did you know this, Miss Ingram? That Mikhail Klimov is a Jew? Shame, the curse of the nose with none of the money! Speaking of Klimov, certainly the man wanted to repay you despite your being _Aryan_, so you, alone with a dead company, and him having parted from his own in order to make sure _you_ survived so that he could properly thank you for saving his village, went back to him to now unoccupied Trevoshka and enjoyed scraps of moldy bread in an unheated shack of a home with Klimov and his mother?"

"Zat is correct."

"Interesting. Now from here you two became very good friends. According to the rest of your file you defected to the USSR and sought fake identification along with Klimov and operated voluntarily at a local Red Army hospital in the city of Steshinka, tending to injured Soviet Soldiers while praying for an Allied victory all the while? I also gathered whilst studying your profile that you and Klimov assisted in hiding Jews once more, saving hundreds from death, while facing your own every second you hid them! Again, most valiant of you both.

Or at least this was the case until your actions were discovered by the SS June 30th, 1944, whilst caught in the middle of smuggling some twenty odd members of the Jewish community out of the city,"

Scout's stomach drops as the man next to him begins to tear up; he'd never known Heinrich had been a part of the resistance…

"I know this next part may be hard for you, Herr Schmelzer—you were deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau under the name of_Gregori Chudinov_, according to your faked papers, along with the Jews you attempted to sneak out of town! Mikhail Klimov had been back in Trevoshka visiting his mother and thus narrowly escaped deportation himself, no?"

Heinrich doesn't even respond with a curt nod. The man simply sits, rigid in his chair, his eyes stony behind his glasses and his Germanic face sterned stoically.

"It was a three day train ride from Steshinka to Auschwitz, Poland, was it not? Cramped, without food or water—boiling hot. The air was musty and you couldn't breathe, there was no light in those boxcars, were there?! I once read in an auto biographical account of yours that passengers shat and pissed in a single metallic bucket that was often overturned—"

Dmitri stops sharply, a hiccup sounding emotionally from the doctor, though he says nothing outright.

"You were also very familiar with the fate that could have awaited you, that as you step out onto the platform you could either be sorted into the line of labour or death. Now I understand the horrors and fears you must have endured, Herr Schmelzer. You arrived at the camp at night, no? Greeted by your brothers and countrymen shouting you down with their dogs biting and drooling at your heels, lights bright as SS men and women corralled you into lines you only hoped would lead you to the labour camps.

As if that wasn't enough, the very group of Steshinka Jews you were so close to rescuing was sorted to the gas chambers—yet it's a wonder you were not shot on sight back in the city itself! Then again the soldiers were weakened by 1944, they probably hadn't the will to do it themselves. You however were sorted to the line of labour—and assigned the number of_14824_ of the _"B"_ series, to indicate you were the 14,824th prisoner to be registered in the "B" series at the time, no?"

Scout watches as the German sobs silently into his own hands, glimpses of his tear streaked face visible from in between his thick fingers.

"Observe, Miss Ingram," Dmitri sighs solemnly, wrenching the German's sleeve back, the numbered sequence tattooed in faded ink on the underside of his forearm. The Italian lets it drop carelessly onto the hardened table, Scout willing himself not to be sick as he follows the blotches of ink and their seep into his age blemished skin, Heinrich's heaves and sobs louder now despite his efforts to conceal them.

"Clearly memories of the camp haunt you, Mr. Schmelzer. But what about the bittersweet day of your liberation? The line to the gas chambers was hours long—you literally stood in line for death in the rain, 78 pounds and six foot one—you could hardly _stand_ at that—when Soviet forces liberated the camp the very same day and all actions were halted.

Just days before, the SS emptied the camp and made the majority of the prisoners march west to their deaths in an attempt to escape the oncoming Soviets, yet you were not among them! You would have _died_, out there. You were among the few to survive,"

"WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!" Scout shouts hysterically, glaring at the smirking Italian. He wanted to say his outburst was meant to defend one of his dearest friends, that he couldn't stand to see the doctor face the memories that he was certain haunted him on their own as it was. Still, Scout realizes as his fists shake, his face twisted with a rage filled disgust, it was _him_ who couldn't stomach the details of Heinrich's gruesome path. He was not alone in this, for Luc's eyes were pressed shut tightly, his face blank but Scout knew the words washed over him too—Sniper's face solemn, his lips sealed as if he too would be sick should he part them. "HOW _DARE_ YOU LAUGH?! HOW DARE YOU FUCKIN' _LAUGH_?!"

"The day of his liberation is a great thing! If you would give me the chance to _explain_, Lawrence—Herr Schmelzer, I do not bring up these memories to _haunt_ you as Scout would like to imply, but to remind you that _history appears to be repeating itself in your case_. You _sympathized_ with the Jew from the very beginning; you denounced the ascension of your own people and instead suffered unspeakable horrors in the name of the ones your people believed to be their undoing—of _Russian Jews, Bolsheviks and Marxists, Social Democrats_. You allowed yourself to be tortured by your own brothers because you fell in love with your enemy—and I mean for the Slavs as much as I mean Mikhail himself! Do not look at me so, I have been your colleague for years, it was beyond obvious you two are together!

Apart from the parallels with Lawrence's that can be drawn from this story, Miss Ingram, we see that Herr Schmelzer has a tendency to abandon his allegiance in favour of the opposition, even if it should mean his identity is reduced to a number, his mass to nothing! Yet he does it again! He conspires to assist his enemy, the Bushman and the criminal Scout, to assist them from escaping their fate! Yet regardless of how you felt, _you_ still had a copy of Mein Kampf with your name dabbed forever in the cover, _you_ still have passages and quotes memorized!"

"'ND WHAT ABOUT _YOU_, YOU FILTHY TOSSER?! YOU'RE PROLLY NOT SO INNOCENT EITHER, YOU WERE PROLLY ONE O'THOSE FASCISTS TOO—!"

"Now Bushman, do realize that Mr. Benito's regime began much before my time and drew to a close in the earliest years I can claim consciousness; despite my country's allegiance with Nazi Germany, I personally cannot say I was ever a Black Shirt or an Italian Fascist—Aha! I see Lawrence takes onto his Bushman, rising when things become too much for him to handle…" Dmitri tisks, rolling his eyes at the crying doctor.

"It's been over twenty years, Doc, dry the tears, now…"

Pauling stands against the wall, hand over her mouth, eyes wide in horror. The Administrator sits with the same thin lipped glare of unamusement at her clients, clearly untouched by the story of BLU's Medic whether she'd heard it before or not.

"Hm, would you look at that—we even have photocopies of your fake identification in here—isn't that something…" Dmitri tucks the paper under Heinrich's arm, Scout running an arm down the man's back sympathetically.

"Though even still you had a happy ending—you having been cared for and treated of malnurishment and injuries sustained by your forced labour by the Allies and you were released in 1946. Though Mikhail was recovered by the Red Army and detained in a Russian camp for having been inexplicably AWOL for a year and a half, you were both reunited in 1949 through search efforts many civilians utilized to find lost loved ones through the Red Cross, and have been inseparable since," Dmitri sighs. "The Heavy and his Medic, as you two are now known…"

The German doesn't even appear to be listening anymore at this point.

"Now let us talk about your eventual recruitment to BLU—"

"I don't need to hear it, Marino, the man has been with us long enough for me to know his employment history,"

"Alright, let us _not_; let us instead move onto your role in this whole Fitzpatrick conspiracy…"

"I have no role…" Heinrich croaks, looking down at his fists. "I have no part in zis. I vas simply a vitness to zeir deazs,"

"Now now, doctor—certainly the methods of interrogation used at Auschwitz-Birkenau taught you it's no good to _lie_—do you not remember what happen to little Danka, who you befriended in the camp? In your memoirs you stated you grew attached to a little girl while in Auschwitz, and that you tried your best, along with her barely surviving mother, to make the days easier for her! She tried running away, and the overseer had _you_ interrogated, for he was certain you knew where she was hiding…" Heinrich's lip trembles again, the man shaking his head.

"You _lied_ for her sake, as you're doing for _Little Larry_ now. But they found her! They found her and made you watch as they sawed off her feet, telling her it was punishment for running away—"

"…I knew nozing; Scout is my comrade and my friend. I saw his body on ze field and zen proceeded to take it to ze infirmary to compose an autopsy report. It vas zen the men came into ze Medibay claiming ze bodies to be fake and zat I vould be taken into custody…" Heinrich interrupts loudly, his whole body shaking as he wills himself to stay calm.

"LIES! ALL LIES! _Why do you insist on lying to me, Schmelzer?_ You have been an enemy of Luc's for years, no? You have fought against him and seen his tricks! How could you not tell the difference between one of his fakes and the real deal?!"

"I—I vas in distress—I saw it vas Scout's body and panicked."

The delivery of the man who proclaimed himself to be an extraordinary actor was dull and neutral, Scout notes dreadingly; as if the doctor himself couldn't even assume the role to pretend this was the truth. Scout could not exactly say he blamed him; it was all coming down so hard—all the man had done was confronted Heinrich with his past and already Scout could see the will drain from those around him.

"You honestly expect me to believe this? You went on to immigrate to the United States, graduate from medical school years before the projected date of completion, earned your status as a hero of the war, pardoned of all identity fraud—_and yet you were fooled by such a simple decoy_,"

"I will 'ave you know Dead Ringer technology is among zhe best in zhe world," Luc snaps, Dmitri's face upturned again in his favourite scowl.

"So he _admits_ to having used it—"

"I admit to _nozhing_, I am simply making sure zhat zhe ozhers in zhis court room are not fooled by your misinformation,"

"I will say Marino has a point, Schmelzer—that you were so easily fooled by a cheap trick is both disheartening and pathetic. Should you ever slip up so obviously again I will have your contract _terminated_ and see to it you are deported back to Germany, regardless of any _bravery_ you may have shown,"

"You believe him?! You _really_ believe his claim that he had _no_ involvement in the conspiracy to hide these two?!"

"I do not have time to sit here and decipher slivers of evidence from wailing Medics, Marino, especially not when I have all the evidence I need already."

"This man is impeding justice!"

"I am not as unforgiving as many like to make me appear; I give everyone second chances," the woman smiles sickeningly, looking the fearful doctor in the eye.

"Despite what Lawrence may have told you I am not so quick to kill my mercenaries; you are moderately indispensable—or at least not dispensable enough that I can punish you too severely upon your first offense. Mr. Schmelzer you have been a most crucial asset to the success of BLU, that I recognise. Whether it was sheer idiocy or disobedience that caused you to overlook the authenticity the bodies, I can assure you that if you were to know that a second offense will cost you deportation and separation from Klimov—as well as a personal reminder of your treason, you would be less hesitant to make such silly mistakes,"

"So then that's it? I bring you an elaborate conspiracy and you dismiss him—"

"It was _hardly_ elaborate, and it is not him I am concerned with," the Administrator coughs, her eyes on Lawrence all the same. "Miss Pauling, take him to the atrium and see to it a car escorts him personally back to Teufort. Mr. Schmelzer, should I see you here again in person you best remember to have your bags packed," the woman spits, a tense silence settling between the four men, Scout watching anxiously as the German rises from his chair.

The man fans a gentle, wide palmed hand along his shoulder, his eyes glassy behind his compact, circular spectacles. The Bostonian shudders as the angle of his arm causes the sleeve of his coat to fall against his bare skin, Heinrich's wrist visible, the faded tattoo flashing itself quickly before the German brings the hand it belongs to to pat him gently on the cheek.

"Get your last look at him, doctor, the next time you'll see him he really _will_ be dead—" the smack of the man's head cracking against the checkered floor, a sickening crunch of skull against the cold, smooth stone, causes Scout to shudder as Sniper actually _dives_ across the table, choking the man violently.

The Administrator simply places her head in her hands, mentally attempting to block out the muffled mesh of Jack's quick and muffled insults, thickened behind his accent, and Dmitri's yelps and screams to get the man off him. Neither Scout nor Luc, though they stand, make an effort to pull the men apart, for the the Administrator simply sits in disgusted silence, otherwise showing no signs of noticing the scrap taking place on her very floor.

He wouldn't stop or reprimand Sniper, not this time; and as the memories of his wide toothed grins pointed at the sobbing doctor resurface themselves, the memory of his bobbing ringlets and the way his skin seemed to glow in the wake of the man's misery, Scout finds himself resisting the powerful urge to pummel him as well. Miss Pauling, hovering over them awkwardly, hands outspread over the squabbling figures rolling about on the floor, hunches her kness so they bend just slightly, her small fingers outstretched as if she waits patiently for a moment to best pull them apart.

The ferocity of their swings and the weight of their bodies sliding carelessly about freezes her from making any motions outright, the small framed woman stepping back as Heinrich pulls the men apart.

Scout instantly pulls the Australian toward him, taking the shattered sunglasses into his hands, the chipped frames and cracked orange lenses digging incisions into his hands the more he toys with the shards. Scout shakes his head slightly, not knowing himself what he means to convey with the gesture, though it's quickly forgotten as Heinrich draws his own fist back so it cracks against the Italian's already bleeding mouth, the German shaking his bloody knuckles as he allows himself to be escorted through the door with Miss Pauling without another word.

"…Miss! _How could you_—how could you let those monsters hit me so—?!"

"You forget I watch you all attempt to _murder_ each other on a regular basis," the woman spits, producing a cigarette and lighter from the side table next to her, the Administrator blowing smoke through her flaring nostrils, her cool, pale skin giving her the look of a furious corpse, contrasting starkly against the rich black of the leather.

"I warned you not to provoke the men, and yet your dramatic display has nearly cost you your teeth," she rises, all four silent as she makes her way to them, save Dmitri's quiet though winded heaves. Like an industrial clamp the woman allows her claws to grip into the nest of Dmitri's curls, talon like in its vice. The cigarette dangles from the corner of her mouth, causing her to scowl in a way Scout can say is neither feminine nor masculine—or _human_ for that matter. Dmitri hisses as she pulls his hair, each tug an immediate result of her surverying his bloodied profile and swollen lips, the blood trickling down his nose and spilling onto his front.

She releases him without a word, the man taking a step back and flattening his shirt. Jack grunts in a similar matter as the woman brings her hand to clench in Sniper's hair as well, though the Australian receives an acute smack at the end of her inspection, his hand going to cup his stinging cheek.

"I don't understand why you don't have these monsters cuffed—"

"Act out of line again Mundy and it's the showers with you,"

"Oo, a cruel joke, miss—it's a good thing you waited until Schmelzer—"

"If you do not quit wasting my time Marino I shall see to it you are the _first_—I told you I had enough with your dramatic display—"

"_Your_ time?! Miss Ingram, with all due respect, the only reason you have time set aside for these men and their crimes to begin with is all thanks to my insight and knowledge; had I not tipped you off that Scout was in a promiscuous, cross factioned relationship with a dirty Bushman nearly old enough to be his _father_ , as _well_ as their attempted escape, you would truly be sitting there, wronged in that chair of yours,"

"…I ain't a kiddie diddler, mate," Sniper snaps calmly, the man sneering mockingly up at the cold woman who stares back at him with equal amounts of animosity. "I'm eleven 'nd a half years older than 'im—when was the last time y'saw a twelve year old walkin' around with a tot?"

"I don't care, it doesn't make your betrayal or eloping any less _filthy_,"

"Besides, Miss, I am not here for you—I am not here for the Frenchman, Larry, or his perverted kangaroo humper—I'm here for the money owed to me,"

"Excuse me?" the Administrator asks calmly, her eyebrows raising as if to silently remind him he is treading on very thin ice.

"The little faggot owes me money, that's all I'll say—and I want it in my hand today before he bites it—I don't care whose pocket it comes out of, just as long as the eight hundred is in my hand by time the blade used to slice his neck is wiped completely clean,"

"I am neither a banker nor a lawyer, Marino, nor am I someone who cares at all for your financial instability; you are here because you have provided me with the perpetrators of one of the greatest crimes committed against me, BLU, RED, and TF Industries to date. In so far you complete your purpose, your affairs matter not at all—you'll be lucky you leave this building today with all your teeth in tact at this rate," the woman snaps, gesturing for Miss Pauling to slip through the door, who stands peeking behind it, waiting for permission.

"Miss Pauling, were you aware of any unpaid debts between the Scout and his Spy?"

"N—n ma'am—but Mr. Schmelzer is on the way back to the base now,"

"Wonderful—in your absence the Spy and Sniper put on a display of brutish oafishness and decided to wrestle around on the floor,"

"I see, there's blood on the floor—I'll get the mop—"

"No, I will have no further interruptions, this process has already gone astray as is; Lawrence Fitzpatrick, I want answers. I want to know how you met this man, how you grew to love him, the extent of the relationship, how long you have been together—and rest assured I will get them, no matter what you or Mundy have to say otherwise. However I see the way I have been running this process has been the wrong way indeed. Clearly if I want the answers, I shall get them myself—"

"Like _Hell_ y'old bitch!"

"And namely without interruptions—whether it be from Marino or Mundy,"

"What do you propose, Miss Ingram?"

"I shall have the three interrogated separately. Miss Pauling, you take the Sniper. I sha—"

"I call dibs on the Frenchman, Miss Pauling, for your see, only a Spy could get another Spy to crack,"

"Yes, _fine_—I shall interrogate the Scout myself—"

"I AIN'T LEAVIN' 'IM YA—"

"I will not kill him _yet_, you have nothing to fear,"

"Y'AREN'T KILLIN' 'IM AT ALL, YA WRINKLED OLD CUNT!"

"Jack, please…" Luc reminds him, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. "Zhis is perfect—"

"_Perfect?! She's gonna kill 'im, mate—!"_

"Trust me please when I say to follow Miss Pauling—I 'ave a plan, I 'ave been zhinking zhis whole time, and zhe isolated questioning is perfect," Luc nods watching the two women chat in hushed voices in the front of the room, Dmitri leaning against the wall next to them, though ultimately going ignored.

"It seems as if Miss Pauling and 'er boss can 'ardly stand zhe man zhemselves,"

"If they kill 'im, I won't fault 'em—bloody tosser…" Jack whispers, Luc shaking his head as the man goes to wrap his arms affectionately around Scout.

"I would not display any sort of romantic act in front of 'er,"

"Does it look like I give a toss what the bitch thinks? It ain't like she hasn't already convicted us t'death for it—Hell, I'll fuck Lawrence right here on 'er little floor, right at her feet, if it's the last thing I do…" he growls, though he checks to make sure the women are still preoccupied before bringing him into a quick, soft kiss.

"Please do not mention your _plans_ to Pauling during questioning. It is a delicate situation, and zhis is our last chance to come out of 'ere alive,"

"'S funny," Sniper snaps, running a soft hand through Scout's hair even as Miss Pauling approaches them, hand cuffs at the ready. "You're talkin' like I plan on tellin' 'er _anything_."


	37. Snuffed Circles

"Mr. Mundy if you would please follow me."

Miss Pauling, whose eyes travel slowly up the height of her suspect, stands only up to the top of the man's ribcage, and even then the woman's shoes do much to bring her even so high against Sniper's build. The already nebbish tone and inoffensive insistence Sniper'd grown to expect from the woman grows even more non threatening in the wake of her entreaty. Sniper smirks as her timorously scrunched lips pucker smally upon her round face, Sniper able to see the faults of her lips, augmented by the dark red of her tastefully done lipstick.

Still, the woman extends a small hand to latch onto the man's cuffed wrist, a yellowed folder tucked under her arm, one he would infer held details pertaining solely to him he was less than comfortable with anyone knowing, be it his employer or not. He shoots a glance at Scout, who sits still in his straight backed, honey tinted wooden chair, his hands clasped neatly on top of the table it matches. They share a short lived glance, though the young man's slightly agape mouth and wavering eyes were all the Australian needed to conclude that Scout was just as reluctant about the man leaving as Sniper was.

_'Luc better know what the Hell it is he's doin','_ Sniper snarls introspectively, already coming to regret the decision to leave the young man behind as she leads them both through the heavy iron door. Luc had been escorted to his interrogation room early by Dmitri, thus leaving his colleague unable to _remind_ the Frenchman that Scout's life was in question, and that Sniper was ready to see to it that Luc's _own_ would be as well should the plan of his be the thing to upset its delicate rest balanced directly on the thin line between life or death for Lawrence.

"This way please."

It's only now Sniper registers the annoying clack of Miss Pauling's purple heels against the cement floor and the silence of the halls off which the miniature collisions echo. Each prim little step sends sharp, stabbing thwacks to ring against his eardrum, and Sniper finds he fears for his sanity. As he cranes his head downward and watches the way her diminutive feet take strides barely inches within each other, it dawns on him in a sudden wave of rebellion that the woman would be nothing for him to over power.

Her grip on his cuffed wrists was all he needed to send her toppling should he wrench his arms back forcefully enough; the strength of her head theoretically hitting the floor would be enough to knock her out temporarily, maybe even enough to cause her to forget their faces if God smiled upon him as He did in Jack's reverie. He'd snatch the key and free himself, and together him and Luc would overpower Dmitri, make a break for Scout, burn their files to paltry smolders of dusty ash, pretend they'd never existed…

Though by time the man realizes the potential of his mass the woman has already him led to the basement once more, her fingers fumbling to unlock yet another chilled interrogation room, once again lacking recesses ideal for windows in the slate enclosures surrounding them.

"If you would please sit, Mr. Mundy…" the woman clears her throat, pulling her chair and resting herself calmly, absolutely no noise resulting from her actions. Sniper refuses to display such grace before the young woman, however, the overhead light swinging as his towering frame bumps into it sharply whilst wrenching his own chair back, plopping in it as if he were composed of a mudlike consistency. Miss Pauling spreads the manila folder calmly so the covers assume a modest portion of the long, rectangular wooden table; the Australian takes the liberty of leaning backward, placing the heels of his dirtied boots upon its surface, Miss Pauling looking up and parting her mouth slowly.

"Mr. Mundy, if you could please lower your feet so I may see the entirety of your face—"

"Nah, don't think I can, Miss,"

"Mr. Mundy, _please,_ I would like to conduct this questioning in short order so as not to waste anyone's time, but if you insist on placing your dirty boots on the table—"

Sniper repeats the assured nature of his insistence by plopping them against the table once more.

"—not only are you wasting my time by making me object, you are wasting my time _later_, when I come through to clean—"

"Oh, 'nd how I'd _hate_ t'waste your bloody _time_…" Sniper growls, drawing his long legs back onto the floor and leaning forward in his chair, slamming his fists heavily against the wood instead. "'Nd what about my 'nd Lawrence's time, huh?!"

"Mr. Mundy it is not because of my actions that you and Mr. Fitzpatrick have been summoned here, and I would highly appreciate it if you would cease speaking as if it were,"

"'Nd you know what _I'd_ appreciate—?!"

"I can assure you I have an idea, Mr. Mundy, though as it is I cannot say now would be an appropriate time to explain to me the whole of your desires and wishes—now if you would be so kind, I would like to conduct this interrogation swiftly and efficiently so as to not uphold the progress and continuation of the trial…" Miss Pauling snaps with a hint of actual sarcasm in her tone, her upper lids narrowed from mild unamusement.

"_Trial_…" Sniper spits before chuckling deeply, smirking and bringing his wild, grey eyes so they peer indisputably into her own browns ones. "Don't tell me you're so stupid t'believe that's really what you're conductin' out there…"

"Regardless of what I may or may not believe, Mr. Mundy, I still have my orders, and I will ask you one more time for you to quit halting progress," the woman hisses with added fervor, with less and less patience. "You're just as bad as Marino…"

"Oi, y'really sayin' I'm as bad as that pizza bakin' dipshit?! It ain't because I'm sexist why I think you're nothin' short of an idiot, Miss—"

"Mr. Mundy that is enough," Miss Pauling raises a hand. "Should you demonstrate a further desire to not cooperate I will ask Miss Ingram for permission for your indefinite internment here as well as separation from Mr. Fitzpatrick,"

"You're kiddin' yourself if y'think I'm afraid of ya—you're even _more_ delusional if y'think you can keep him away from me…"

She sighs, though ignores him this particular time; she draws the folder closer to her, and Sniper catches a glance of the yellowed "General Profile" sheet he assumes must have been filled out sometime near his initial induction into RED some ten years ago, the photo of himself paperclipped to the upper left hand corner forever capturing a much more sanguine version of himself, free from the threat of death despite the war that awaited him.

Miss Pauling allows herself a few seconds' time to take a cursory study of the thin info sheet, her eyes travelling up to the Australian who sits before her.

"How old were you in this picture, Mr. Mundy…?"

"Y'mean there isn't a birth 'nd deployment date on the sheet or y'can't do basic math?"

"Mr. Mundy—"

"Twenty six or seven, Hell if I know—young enough t'do it but old enough t'know better—why, the Hell does it have t'do with anythin'—"

"It's nothing, Mundy—recruited through the Australian Armed Forces, I see, I assume Redmond III took personal interest in your sharpshooting skills,"

"Somethin' like that, told me he wanted me in some special ops somethin' or other—you'd think a man spreadin' lies o'that nature would be in prison—"

"Going by your service record you're as exceptional as Redmond assumed you to be—you have many medals, distinguished honours and titles, it even says you've only been dominated thrice throughout your whole career, every kill also being a headshot—"

"Well 'course, y'don't keep the position o'bein' one'o only ten Snipers RED has employed all over the goddamn world by _missin'_'nd shovin' fingers up your own arse,"

"I would never dare to assume so, Mr. Mundy—what led to your transfer to the American branch of RED?"

"I don't understand what it has t'do with you wankers tryin' t'kill my Lawrence,"

"It is merely a question, Mr. Mundy,"

"What d'you think?! RED needed me t'take out a hit in America since all the other Snipers were already at other bases engaged in battles—this was jus' a side operation in the interest o'RED, free from the battlefield,"

"So—?"

"So what else was there t'do?! I was shipped out, shot the bugger in the head—'s nothin' else t'tell,"

"I assume you were transferred to 2Fort after the hit?"

"Somethin' like that,"

"Mr. Mundy please put the cigarettes and lighter away, this is a no smoking facility—" the woman fans her hand in front of her face as Sniper lights the thing, making sure to blow the smoke loftily in her direction.

"So when was it exactly you met Mr. Fitzpatrick for the first time—?"

"_Piss off_—"

"Mr. Mundy your defiance will not save him, nor will your behaviour work in swaying Miss Ingram's mind—"

"_So then that's it, huh_?! You're sittin' here, watchin' 'nd even _aidin'_ in the murder of someone who didn't do _anythin'_ to ya—he didn't do anythin' _wrong_, Pauling—!"

"Mr. Mundy there is no need to raise your voice at me—"

"No need t'raise my voice?! You're tellin' me _t'keep my voice down_, 'nd yet you're gonna sit here, threatenin' me t'stay in line 'nd answer your questions like a _good boy_, tellin' me about how your damn boss is gonna just kill the one I love if I don't answer you're stupid questions?!"

"I—have no investment in any of this, the trial, the interrogation—I am simply following _orders_, Mr. Mundy—"

"Orders, eh? Well then I s'ppose those orders don't mean much o'anythin' 's long as little Miss _Intern_ gets 'er credit when this is all over, huh? 'S long as Miss Ingram writes up a good report back to your Professor 'nd you get your little degree in your hand, you don't care _what_ the orders even _mean_, do ya?!" Sniper growls, the mousey woman listening silently with her lips pursed.

"Clearly you're fittin' right in if you don't see a problem with takin' in a bunch o'people you've never even formally _met_ into a prison 'nd murderin' them with little to no evidence to their names—"

"Mr. Mundy the crimes are simple and thoroughly unambiguous—Dmitri Marino brought in irrefutable evidence of you and Lawrence Fitzpatrick's unlawful and treacherous cross factioned, homosexual relationship—"

"So what bloody difference does it make if it's _homosexual_ or not?! Y'sayin' I can't love Lawrence 'cause I'm a man?!"

"Judging by the photographic evidence provided to us by Mr. Marino—"

"Those photos were faked, y'dumb bitch—"

"Save it for the testimony, Mr. Mundy—"

"It all woulda stayed under your noses if he hadn't gone runnin' to your boss exposin' us! Only reason he did was 'cause the wanker was exploitin' money outta Scout, sayin' if we didn't want the Administrator t'know he was s'posed t'pay!'

"Then perhaps Mr. Fitzpatrick best learn how to keep his financial deals and promises in line,"

"You're just as heartless as she is," Sniper spits, shaking his head from disgust. "A right ruthless _cunt_,"

"Mr. Mundy I understand the likely sentence facing Mr. Fitzpatrick upsets you deeply—I sympathise, I truly do, however it cannot be ignored that you two have an intricate, ongoing romance that conflicts with your contracts as well as the interests of RED, BLU and TF Industries. Because of it you have abandoned your duties, posts, forsaken all allegiances to your factions, endangered your comrades, expended countless amounts of BLU and RED resources, time, money, munitions, and manpower. At the very least you both will receive dishonourable discharge for your actions, as well as your paychecks and savings stripped from your financial accounts.

However Miss Ingram regards you all much highly, which is why it is so sad to see you in such a situation; she knew it would be a waste to kill you both outright, thus she had Mr. Fitzpatrick prove his loyalty by offering him the choice of either killing you or allowing himself to be killed—"

"'Nd what for, the killin'?!"

"I do not know, Mr. Mundy, these were simply her conditions—"

"'Nd you don't question that?! I love Lawrence more than anythin', I wouldn't deny it for the world. I don't care if you stick the barrel of a gun in my mouth. I don't care if you find me lovin' 'im t'be on par with the dirt caked in your shoes, the _real_treachery here's that you'd have us _murdered_ over manpower 'nd the risk of company secrets bein' traded—"

"The orders were not to kill _you_ today, Mr. Mundy—"

"You say that, 'nd yet you stuck a rifle in Lawrence's arms 'nd told 'im t'blow my brains out—besides, I guarantee I'd make your lives Hell if you so much as laid a finger on 'im, I'd get myself murdered in the process—"

"You're being irrational—"

"I'm bein' irrational?! You're the one admittin' you'd condone two men bein' _killed_ for findin' some actual good in a world where nothin' matters over two rich _bastards_ fightin' over _land_!"

"Mr. Mundy…"

"I don't understand you people; I never understood ya. From day one y'told me I was joinin' RED, the effort to save the Free World. Y'told me I was fightin' evil 'nd combatin' BLU t'stop it from its rape in the name o'word conquest. Y'tell me I'm makin' somethin' of myself out here, fightin' for ya, 'nd ya know what, I _do_—if it weren't for joinin' ya I never woulda met Lawrence, 'nd Lawrence is the only thing stoppin' me from puttin' a bullet through my _own_ head, Miss—not BLU or RED or TF Industries or Mann Co, not my parents or my sister, not _Freedom_ or _Communists_, but _Lawrence_, a skinny arse Bostonian is the only thing in my life worth wakin' up for at this point.

I don't do _shit_ for you or RED 'nd I haven't in three bloody years; everythin' I do I do for him, 'nd you can jot it down in that fuckin' notebook o'yours 'nd I'll tell the Administrator myself just in case she doesn't quite get it; He's the only thing that matters to me. 'Nd so y'can give me medals, honours, awards 'nd memorials for killin' a man, but then you would put me t'death for fallin' in _love_ with one,"

Sniper rests his forehead in the palm of his hand, Pauling silent for the seconds he chooses not to say anything else.

"Even the Armed Forces look down upon same sex romance, Mr. Mundy, even _within_ the Armies itself—"

"Even our own _Government_ isn't slaughterin' us jus' 'caused we kissed another bloke, 'nd I swear it to ya: one day your lot's gonna be exposed for the evils 'nd lies you're perpetratin' around here; one day the whole world'll know that their president means nothin', but rather BLU or RED controllin' 'em, that our lives're all bein' steered for the interests o'_your_ bosses, your tax dollars goin' t'pay _their_ feud—"

"And this is most likely _why_ she'll have you both killed, because she knows her civilians will speak should you part with TF Industries on bad terms,"

"'Nd that honestly doesn't seem wrong t'you? We get killed because we know the truth?!"

"It doesn't matter what I think, Mr. Mundy…" Miss Pauling sighs, her head shaking slightly so her pigtails slip from their ribbons with each gesture. "Her word is final, and my orders will be carried out whether I do them or not, the latter option not going without me _also_ being punished,"

"And I bet you could talk to Heinrich Schmelzer about what happened to the _last_ regime o'men who all claimed t'be _followin' orders_, when justice was served the Allies didn't give two shits 'bout whether they were _ordered_, point was they committed the crime—"

"The men followed the orders because they risked the safety of their families by not doing so! And in the same vein, this is my whole future, Mr. Mundy, my degree is contingent on receiving good marks for the internship—!"

"It's our whole future too, Miss, 'cept for you there's still a life without your degree; without Lawrence I have nothin',"

Miss Pauling stutters a bit, growing somewhat exasperated as she tries to form the appropriate words to explain her circling emotions.

"There's nothing I can do, Mr. Mundy—I sympathise, I truly do, I _want_ you to be with Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Rousseau, I hope, gets to hold onto his stepson, but there's simply nothing I can do—now please answer my questions, Mr. Mundy, we might be running out of time, and if she gets impatient you might not be able to say goodbye,"

Sniper's expression softens, the woman notes, studying him with an urgent glare, the man silently gesturing for her to begin questioning.

"How did you meet him?" Miss Pauling asks quietly, her tone suddenly much different, much softer.

"At 2Fort, where else?"

"No, how—did you encounter him in battle, did you see him when he arrived?"

"…Little mutant was climbin' around in my tree pickin' apples; told 'im to get down or else I'd kill 'im—'course he didn't listen, he never does, but…"

"When was this?"

"September three years ago—s'pose he was brand new that day, he had no idea he was on enemy territory…"

"And why didn't you kill him?"

"'Re you _serious_?! Kid couldn't've been any older than twenty or twenty one, 'nd he was _new_ at that, wasn't even armed! He tried maskin' it but he was scared shitless, he was shakin' up there _glued_ to the damn thing. He was completely helpless, there would've been no honour in his kill—besides, I ain't so heartless, I wasn't gonna hurt 'im, he was terrified! Not t'mention the Administrator wouldn't've approved of fraggin' 'im,"

"I see—what then? I know for a fact it didn't go from him in the tree to you so in love with him…"

"Gremlin kept comin' back; picked the tree _clean_. He looked so damn _happy_, I figured _'jus' let 'im do whatever the Hell he wants'_. Soon as he fought his first battle he'd realize there wasn't a lot t'be happy about out there.

"Nd after three weeks, he started comin' to the nest every damn night, talkin' 'bout the day's battle, callin' me a shithead or whatever else—I remember the first time I dominated 'im, kid came stormin' up to the nest talkin' 'bout I was cheap 'nd didn't deserve the shot that landed it. Told'im 's what he got, that he needs t'get better if he ever wanted revenge…"

"So?"

"So he got it. After a week he got me back. It was his first month at 2Fort, 'nd he was already makin' a name for himself; the mongrel was vey reckless his first six months, but a Hell of a Scout 'nd not anyone y'wanted to run into. There was somethin' to 'im I really liked, even though he annoyed the ever lovin' _shit_ outta me. Musta been the same deal for him, 'cause he was finding me every night. He'd plop down next t'me in the evenin's and either gloat about how great he was or bitch that everyone else was unfair. He was easy t'rile up, too; y'tell him you can take 'im on 'nd the next thing y'know you've got a rivalry goin' on,"

"You started as rivals?"

"Friendly ones, I gotta add; I always told 'im I'd never shoot t'kill 'cause I didn't kill newsies, 'nd he always told me he never shot t'kill cause he wanted me t'be alive so he could see the embarrassment on my face when he _owned_ me. It was all true at first, the only thing that really _was_ stoppin' me from guttin' 'im was his newness. I'm tellin' ya, it started off as legitimate hatred!

But then at some point I started noticin' I was actually _disappointed_ when the gremlin didn't show up at the nest, like I'd almost begun t'expect 'im. But he'd jus' show up again the next day, 'nd before he could catch on I was hurt he hadn't shown up the night before, _he_ was already spewin' apologies a mile a minute, sayin' he tried t'come but Jane made them all go t'bed early that night—it was weird, it really was, 'nd by about his seventh month, I'd say the reason I wasn't killin' him because he was my _friend_,"

"I see…"

"'S not it, Miss; from there, I started gettin' protective. Lawrence was my rival 'nd no one elses. I'm tellin' ya, it would really get me goin' if someone else dominated 'im, or if I saw one o'my comrades out t'kill 'im, I'd distract them long enough for Scout t'get away…"

"And he didn't notice?"

"What?! 'Course he _noticed_! Kid was thankin' me left 'nd right after a while, pretty soon he was doin' the same for me! But no matter how we'd stop the others from havin' goes, we didn't hold back with each other—we've put each other in the _hospital_way too many times t'count. The three dominations on my record were all from Scout, he's the only one who's ever gotten me enough three separate times,"

"Was this because you let him?"

"No—kid's just damn good at what he does—has the modesty of a hedonist, though…"

"I see…now, would you say he loves _you_?"

"I—I mean, _yeah_, 'course—'s a matter o'fact Lawrence fell in love with me _ages_ before I'd even began seein' 'im that way…"

"How so?"

"Well, first of all we never would've even become friends if he hadn't insisted on botherin' me in the nest; he always sought_me_ out, even if it was only t'tell me I was an arsehole…"

"Go on…"

Sniper shrugs. "But he'd always call me an arsehole, then sit down t'stay. It was strange t'me at first, the way the mutant was always findin' me, smilin' 'nd always throwin' his arms around my neck. I don't usually mix well with people _anyway_, 'nd Lawrence is hardly a _person_, y'know. Kid's inhuman with his ability t'piss a bloke off, 'nd that bloody annoyin' accent, I've even grown fond o'that damn _accent_! I like my peace, 'nd Lawrence sure as Hell ain't _peace_, but—y'know, sometimes I think the reason _why_ I grew so attached to 'im was because he was simply everythin' I wasn't, because despite our differences, he was the first person I'd ever met t'just accept me 'nd love me regardless…"

"The first?"

"I've been a _fag_ for as long as I can remember, 'nd God forbid a day should go by where people ain't callin' me one. He never knew until about a year'nd a half ago _how_ I swung—Hell, it wasn't until then we even learned each other's _names_ at that! T'tell the truth, though, I shoulda seen it comin' from a mile away…"

"What?"

"That he was fallin' in love with me! I'd been with RED seven whole years 'nd never once had I come up t'the nest after a long day's battle t'find a BLU curled up in a ball, _snoozin'_ 'nd exhausted from waitin' for me. Or the way he'd jus' look at me, the way I'd make 'im smile, the way his eyes would get so round, the way he'd lean against me if he started gettin' tired…"

"My Goodness…"

"I remember it; I actually _carried_ a sleepin' Lawrence in my arms, back to his own base—he was snorin' a bit, it was really somethin',"

"Mr. Mundy…"

"'Nd that was after a whole hour o'him protestin' even goin' back to his base—it was one o'the weekends we had off 'nd he wanted to have some sort o'_sleepover_ in the nest. I'll tell ya what, I had a real time thinkin' over how I'd really just carried him in my arms on the walk back. But he was just lookin' for a friend, y'know? He didn't care which side I was on, point was I listenin' to 'im 'nd givin' him more than jus' one word answers he said his comrades couldn't even be bothered to give 'im. I can't blame him for that…"

"I _cared_ about 'im, I really did. I mean sure, he annoyed me t'Hell 'nd back at first, he still did 'nd even still _does_, but he'd really, really grown on me. I knew he really thought the world of me, 'nd he really _is_ a sweet boy, he _means_ well. _'S long as we keep the war in mind, it wouldn't hurt t'be his little buddy,_ I'd figured. Then the next thing I knew Lawrence was sneakin' out every night. Or some nights he'd jus' come poutin', talkin' 'bout how he missed home, his Ma 'nd his brothers. I sympathized 'nd I listened, I wanted t'be there for 'im.

But _bein' there_ meant t'him _lyin' against me with his head on my chest, wrappin' our hands t'gether_,"

"And how'd you react at first?"

"I was _terrified_! The friendship was bad enough, 'nd I could tell by the way he'd rest his head on my shoulder 'nd kiss 'long my collarbone that things were gettin' _worse_, but I never stopped 'im. I knew it was wrong, but I never stopped 'im…"

"My Goodness, Mr. Mundy…"

"He was fallin' for me; it seemed like it'd come outta nowhere at the time, but lookin' back on it it'd been buildin' up for months. I couldn't say I felt the same way at first; not just 'cause I _didn't_, but 'cause I knew he deserved better than a grumpy Sniper who had no hope for humanity livin' outta his _van_—then I saved 'im from RED's Scout. He got beaten real bad, he woulda died if I hadn't found'im; 'nd here I was, cryin' into 'im, pleadin' that he holds on, that we'd be t'gether again before he knew it…"

"And then?"

"Then I knew I was just as in love as he was...but when the mongrel decided t'confront his feelin's for me I guess he really wasn't all that ready t'face what lovin' another man meant; he called me all sorts o'shit. Sure the insults hurt comin' from 'im, but I knew it wasn't his fault, really, he was jus' confused.

So the next year 'nd a half after we spent in a weird position: we were more than friends 'nd we knew it, but we weren't t'gether. I'd only let 'im kiss me sometimes, but if he tried gettin' too sweet I'd push him off me, I didn't want 'im lovin' on me 'til he was ready to accept he had feelin's for another man. We weren't actually romantically involved as a serious pair until maybe 'round March o'this year…'nd the whole time I knew it was a bad idea, that it would get 'im killed, lovin' his enemy," Sniper snarls, running his hand through his thick brown hair, the healthy strands soft and sweat dampened against his fingers.

"Now look."

"Mr. Mundy…"

"I love him, Miss, that's really all I can tell you; how it happened, or _why_ or _when_, all completely over my head…."

"But why?"

"Hell if I know," the man sighs, raising himself from his chair. "With all due respect, I ain't plannin' on jus' sittin' here chattin' with ya when Lawrence could already have his hands'nd neck in the guillotine,"

Sniper stares at her silently, though willfully nonetheless. Through his thinly pursed mouth Miss Pauling can read the importune that lies unspoken both in his eyes and on the edge of his lips.

"If I let you out that door, Mr. Mundy—"

"'S all I ask. Release Luc 'nd let me get t'Scout,"

"I—I just don't know—"

"The only crime Lawrence is guilty of is lovin' me; if for that y'really think he deserves _death_—"

"It's not about what I think Mr. Mundy!"

"Still, y'have the ability t'let me out 'nd save a young man who's gonna be murdered for fallin' in love,"

"…And the Frenchman?"

"Forget 'im. He's jus' tryin' t'save his stepson, he ain't out t'get anyone unless they're out t'get him, _none_ of us are,"

"Say I let you out that door, you rescue Mr. Rousseau and you get Fitzpatrick. Say you _do_ escape, Mr. Mundy, then what?!" the woman asks, looking him realistically in the eye.

"I take Lawrence 'nd I run."


	38. Sardonic

Lawrence tries to twist away from the end of the cigarette the woman traps between the ends of her fingers, the very same ends tipped with painted blades of nails that curl with growing length, the young man twisting his head violently as she nears it slowly. The few inches the loosened restraints spare him still do not suffice in assisting Scout's escape from the smoldering tobacco, the dirty burn suggesting the brand she typically enjoys must be of surprisingly cheaper quality. The budget smoke still does much to flare up his own addiction despite its choking, low grade burn. He clenches his mouth tightly as the woman presses the thin white cigarette gently into the skin just below his left eye.

The smell of his own flesh was sweet, salty, yet almost eerily familiar, like the scent of his mother labouring over the rarity that was a marinated lamb baking in the dusty kitchen he had safeguarded in the oldest corners of his memory. It is with rising horror he notes that the crackling pops and the drying of his own dying skin should remind him of meals once consumed, the rising smoke settling permanently in his nose, catching onto the back of his throat. He bellows another unnerving roar as he watches the skin flake in the form of dead scabs, the excruciating pain wells a nausea within him that doubles with each second he suppresses his screams, small hisses slipping through his teeth in the shouting's place. His incisors puncture his bottom lip, the stinging of the opened flesh nothing compared to the sensation of being burnt alive.

A myriad of incoherent curses and whimpers escape his throat in violent bursts as he finds the sensation of the embers burning to his very cheekbones causes him to lose all control of the volume and intensity of his screams. His back arches into a perfect curve as he uses the contortion of his body to soak up the pain like a morbid sponge. She pulls the flame yellowed cigarette back, Scout's vision blurring the image of the woman who stands above him, scowling at him from an antipathy that fuels her silent torture.

His hissing of "bitch" is hardly audible, weakened as he presses his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, the insult leading the woman to extend a cold, lifeless hand to clench against his cheek bones, the mound of the palm of her hand casting a shadow just above his eyes. He hisses the word again, stinging tears slipping over the many blistering burns that plague his face, catching under her thumb. Summoning all his energy, he blinks the remaining moistness from the corners of his eyes, narrowing them to show that she had not cracked him yet; she could _never_ crack him.

Slamming the young man's head back against the table, stunning Scout momentarily, she takes the time bought by her to tighten the leather restraints assembled against his chest and legs. Crushing the ruined cigarette, she allows her eyes to brush over the young man before tossing it aside in favour of a small scalpel, whose silver blade is unblemished of smudges, sleek and perfectly reflective, the edge of the weapon not visibly sharp though causing Scout's breathing to quicken as she brings it to drag harmlessly across his cheek. She traces the pulsing veins in his throat lightly with the side, waiting until he becomes more conscious to continue. When his tongue quests out between his bloody lips, she angles the surgical weapon to remind him that the knife was not as harmless as the scrambling endorphins in his mind tried lulling him to believe.

The first sensation was real fear, as his eyes snap open to a gleaming metal tool traversing his neckline like a reptile seeking warmth, biding its time. The second was pain, as the still-warm burns on his face send reminders of their existence back to his brain via pain receptors. And the third was a sense of being alone. As if she could read his mind, the Administrator snaps, "Your precious Jack isn't able to _save_ you again, not this time."

She grimaces as Scout flinches, the edge of the blade inflicting a thin slash along a tendon jutting from his neck, blood seeping lazily through the newly opened tremour in his skin, droplets pooling and staining it a healthy red in its wake.

"Too many times have you undeservingly escaped death; though where before I knew not whether it was divine intervention or incompetence of the other side, I know now it was Mundy assuming the role of your _guardian angel_."

The terrible woman slathers the blood with the tip of her index finger, the liquid settling in the grooves of her fingerprint and in the basin of her curling nails.

"I am very disappointed in you, Lawrence," she spits, rubbing her fingers together, the dried blood causing the tips to stick together. "You're my best, most _loyal_ little fighter, it would be such a shame to let you die so…"

A rattling of a chain and the feel of tiny metallic balls pressing urgently against his stinging neck indicates to the young man that the woman had broken off his dog tags, freeing the whole of his collarbone for the scalpel's exploration.

"Where, I wonder, is your other one?" she asks softly of the Scout who flicks his tongue across his burning, raw lips, too preoccupied with the action to answer. "Let me guess—_Mundy wears the second one…_" she tisks mockingly, casting the thin metal aside, the balls of the chain bouncing about the floor in high pitched clinks.

"Heartwarming."

She brings the tip of the knife so it swivels in slow, soft circulatory motions around Scout's nervously bobbing Adam's apple, breaking the flesh softly.

"I really do not want to have to kill you, boy…" she sighs, cupping his cheek and patting it carelessly, and Scout closes his eyes again, muttering yet another unintelligible insult under his breath. "It would be such a waste; you've done _so_ well, Scout…" the woman frowns, making a sharp swipe at Scout's cheek, blood seeping rapidly from the deep gash.

"And I have only treated you like a prince up until now, no? I pay you well, feed you, clothe you, supply you with weapons and a heated base, loving comrades, I am even granting you freedom and a clean record—all I ask is five years of service..." the Administrator sighs, holding Scout down as she stabs the scalpel straight through the palm of his left hand, the limb shriveling so his fingers arch around the blade. The aggressive scream he releases is the only means he has to express his pain, for he can no longer thrash away, the restraints too tight against his body.

"…and you can't even give me _that_."

She slowly draws the knife from Scout's palm, smeared with thin, shallow, irregular streaks of blood clinging to the tempered steel.

"But either your allegiance lies with me or the Sniper, and I have given you the opportunity to prove it to me once already—though because I value you _so_, I will give you a few moments' longer to make your choice…"

Scout groans, his left hand twitching, the recess in the center of it producing blood along with the rest of his cuts, his bandages staining quickly. The woman takes no pity on him however as she brings her hands to clench down on his temples. She wrenches his head upward, glaring at his liquefied expression, the reflection of herself haloed in the iris of his dark blue eye.

"Make your choice, Scout; Me, BLU, and you, or the Sniper and your death."

-

"_I can only reiterate it, Mr. Mundy—_"

"Uhuh—"

"_If anyone asks, I have nothing to do with letting you out—_"

"I'll keep it in mind, Miss, just _please_ take me t'where that bastard's got Luc!"

"Promise me you will not disclose my involvement in letting you out!"

"I won't, I won't, I _won't_, now unlock the damn door before 's too late—!" the man doesn't finish his sentence, but instead he rattles the golden handle, his moist hands sliding in lubricous fumbles against the frored metal. Sniper presses his right shoulder forcefully into the door to which Miss Pauling fumbles with a set of keys conjoined on a moderately sized brass keyring, her shaking hands twisting them back and forth in the hole tremulously, as if the muscles of her hands were composed solely of rickety fault lines.

"_HURRY—UP—YOU—!_"

"Mr. Mundy, stand back, I don't want Mr. Marino to think you are breaking it!" she squeaks, her heart giving an exceptional thump as the soft _click_ of the key conquers the security of the lock, the metal door swinging open quickly, though not so quick to suggest aggressive intentions (perhaps not from Pauling, in any case).

The sight that awaits them both stuns the two figures, Luc himself completely unaware of his onlookers for at least twenty seconds. The killing must have been only minutes ago, Sniper concludes, for Luc still bends over Dmitri's body, his butterfly knife abandoned next to the messy crime scene. Blood stagnates underneath the Italian's not yet rigid body, which lies facedown, suffocating in the liquid of his own insides. Luc, who stood now bedecked in a violet suit as opposed to the red one he originally adorned, involuntarily dyed with the clotting liquid of his victim, swipes a hand through his thick blonde hair. The moisture collected in the lines of his fanned palm causes the disheveled strands to adhere to themselves and retain the sloppy, handswept style, the bloodshed now the gel of the Frenchman.

"_Luc, Holy Shit—_" Sniper gasps, the Frenchman standing to his full height smoothly where others would have been quick to jump to their natural stature. Miss Pauling stands beside the Australian, weeping behind the hands covering her mouth, her eyes glittering behind the black, square framed glasses that rest upon her soft nose. Luc clears his throat, brushing what Sniper assumes must only be drying blood off his suit.

"Oh! I was 'oping I could come out and find _you_, Jack, zhough I suppose zhis…works…" Luc attempts to chuckle, smiling at the disbelieving gape Sniper sports, as well as Miss Pauling's weeping coupled with flailing hand gestures at Dmitri's body maimed with nasty gashes and puncture wounds.

"Remember when I said I 'ad zhat _plan_, Jack?" Luc clears his throat, Sniper surveying the dirtied room and stepping over Dmitri's stationary corpse, bending his knees to level himself with what he can only label a _massacre_.

"…I can assure you zhis was not part of it…"

"_Fuck_, Luc…" Sniper sighs heavily, bringing his hands to rake wearily through his hair. "I'm gettin' too bloody old for this—close the door, would y'Pauling?" Sniper asks kindly of the woman, who obeys with a slight cry preempting the slamming of the door.

"_What_…" is all the Australian can utter, albeit incredulously, looking around the floor and gesturing to the dead Spy. _"Have you done."_ The question was more of a statement, Sniper's grey eyes teeming with a need for a sufficient answer to address it as if it were a question regardless.

"I can assure you I 'ave a good explanation for zhe dead Dmitri, Jack! Zhe man was trying to press details of Scout's attempted escape out of me as well as trying to get me to admit zhat 'Einrich was involved wizh zhe plan—zhen 'e went on to bad talk Lawrence and 'is mozher—" Luc sighs apologetically, watching the man take stressed strides in a pattern throughout the room, his feet catching in the plashes of carnage no matter where his body leads him to step. Every time the Australian attempts to speak words fail him, the two certainly ignoring Miss Pauling's light shivering near the door. "It was out of self defense, as it is—'e was saying all zhese zhings, and zhen zhe man decides 'e was tired of zhe speech giving and zhat_my time was up_—"

"'Lright, _great_; you two spend all this time tellin' me about how irrational _I_ am, then you turn around 'nd _kill a bitch_—"

"_'Ave you not been listening?!_ 'E was trying to kill _me_ Jack, and I know for a fact zhe Administrator did not want eizher of us killed during our interrogations, but I did what 'ad to be done, I did it out of protection!"

"_Pr'tection?!_" Sniper sighs with a weighted resignation, his cheeks puffed as he periodically emits heaves just in time for when the two others had assumed maybe he'd gotten over the initial shock. His lips point downward, his trademark scowl taking full expressive effect as he extends a bare hand to grab onto the mop of curls, sopped with blood. His fingers settling into the thick ringlets summons within him a sensation not too far off from the tingling of lying naked in the Australian beaches, the ends of the hair tickling at his skin, their harmless stroke chilled as if he were digging his feet into sand as in those days…

Sniper hesitates in lifting the man's face from his own puddle of claret only because the image of blood droplets swiveling the spiraled course of the curls, dripping in a traceable pattern from the locks and joining the mass of wetness on the floor, sickens him to a brief point of paralysation. The man's profile surfaces from the gore, Sniper groaning out loud at the sight of Dmitri's mangled and stabbed out left eye, his neck wobbling loosely, the slit of the severed jugular gaping open and closed biliously like the mouth of a wordless puppet.

"_Good Lord_…" Sniper retches, releasing his grip in the dead Italian's hair, his head falling unceremoniously back to the quagmire of body fluid, which the Australian notices, almost _ripples_ in sick, asymmetrical splatters, and is not at all stagnant as he assumed.

"'E came at me, over zhe table," Luc clears his throat, pointing at the now overturned table, blood staining _it_, too.

"Bloke must not've been much of a diver, seein' as there's blood…everywhere…" Sniper notes, flicking his hands of the sweet blood that stains his large hand. "Either that or your assassination skills're a bit rusty,"

"I sliced zhe man's _jugular_, Jack—"

"You'd think you'd know not t'slice it if it makes a mess like that then!"

"A skilled Spy knows to never turn 'is back to 'is adversary—"

"_Skilled alright_, considerin' he looks like he walked head on into a sawblade,"

"You're not too far from zhe truzh, acutally—'E dived right into my knife, took 'is eye out, zhe man flailed about until I incapacitated 'im by stabbing 'is stomach—"

"Y'mean _stabbin' his eye out_ didn't do the trick?! _Jesus_—guess you were right, Miss, you _were_ hearin' screams back there!" Sniper calls at the sobbing woman with mock cheerfulness.

"I—I did not want to 'ave to kill 'im, but 'e left me no choice!"

"Funny how y'get blood _everywhere_, whether y'had to or not, can hardly call it a clean kill; looks like a goddamn_slaughterhouse_ in here, Luc—smells like you've been minin' _pennies_ for the last hundred years…" Sniper kicks the man, the tip of his leather shoe now stained like Luc's.

"_Bloody pizza fucker_—serves him right for everythin' he's done t'my Lawrence…."

"Now what?!" Luc asks incredulously, Jack shrugging before scoffing at his colleague.

"I dunno, burgers ?! You're the spy, not me—you've killed enough people t'know what t'do—"

"Dmitri burgers?"

"Yeah, fire up a grill 'nd dig in, mate!"

"Oh Jack, _please_! I am not willing to risk zhe indigestion one bite of zhis greasebag would cause!" the Frenchman smirks, Sniper sneering down at the Italian next to him.

"Get some ketchup, some cheese, freeze whatever else y'don't grind up for the winter—"

"You're both mad—absolutely mad—!" Miss Pauling shrieks from the corner in between tears, Luc adjusting his tie.

"It—it wasn't as if you actually liked 'im anyway—"

"He's _dead_!" She wails again. "I knew I should have never helped you—!"

"Oi! I didn't kill 'im! All I'm tryin' t'do is get me, him, 'nd Lawrence outta here in one piece! I don't give a toss about the bloody wog's long as it doesn't interfere with gettin' lost from this hellhole—!"

"While I agree, you cannot just ignore zhat we would be leaving a bloodied room and a _corpse_ in our wake!"

"Wanna watch me?! 'Cause I'm pretty sure I can ignore it pretty easily, mate—"

"We 'ave to at zhe _very_ least dispose of zhe body!"

"D'YOU NOT GET IT?! I DON'T CARE IF SOME OLD MAN JANITOR BARELY MAKIN' MINIMUM WAGE HAS T'CLEAN THIS SHIT UP, WE DON'T HAVE _TIME_!" Sniper roars, though the two men turn their glares onto the weeping Miss Pauling still huddled in her corner, her hand fanned over her mouth, the woman shaking her head quickly.

"Please, Miss Pauling, 'e was a chauvinistic, cruel imbecile! 'Ave you not _forgotten_ zhe way 'e treated you?! 'E sexually 'arrassed you on a daily basis, non?!"

"He—he didn't deserve to _die_!"

"What else was I supposed to do, 'e tried killing _me_!"

"And how did you have that knife on you?! You smuggled a weapon in, and—Oh God, oh God, oh _God_!"

"Please, Madame, I only 'ad zhe knife just in case I needed to defend myself—!"

"Great, now there's no way she's gonna help me get Lawrence now—!"

"In zhat case we do not need to 'ide zhe body, I can just leave it 'ere," Luc sighs, taking a deep breath and giving Dmitri and then Sniper a look over.

"We storm zhe Administrator's room, I am disguised as _you_ Jack, using my Dead Ringer—"

"Thought you said it didn't do disguises—"

"Not as _thoroughly_, for example it does not conceal voice, 'owever I can imitate an Australian accent well enough—zhen I will tell Scout to "kill" me, which will zhen produce a fake of your body. I shall zhen, while cloaked, run back to where you are 'iding, Lawrence walks away free, zhen we pick a direction and _run_ in it!"

"That was your plan?"

"Y—Yes, and you do not sound impressed…"

"Well, 's kinda hard t'just _go on about business as usual_ when we've got a dead guy in the basement…"

"You said yourself no one 'as to know until we are long gone…" Luc nods, the two men turning slowly to face Miss Pauling, who visibly swallows before shaking her head.

"I—I have to tell her…"

"Y'don't _have_ to tell anyone _anythin'_, Pauling—"

"No, Mr. Mundy, _I cannot just stand by and watch as you murder and kill—!_"

"_Oh_, but it's _A okay_ when Miss Ingram kills my Larry for kissin' another bloke—"

"Miss Pauling, as much as I 'ate to vicitimise you 'ere in such a delicate situation—"

"I sure as Hell don't," Sniper snaps, snatching up the loaded revolver lying next to its deceased owner, the woman screaming as Sniper brings it to her height.

"_JACK_—"

"Here's how it's gonna work, Miss," Sniper snarls, Miss Pauling flattening her back against the metal door as Sniper nears her with the weapon.

"You're either gonna take us upstairs, 'nd not say a _goddamned_ word while we finish up our business, or else y'can take a nice bullet t'the brain,"

"You are only digging our graves deeper, Jack—"

"_Clearly_ we're abandonin' all pretenses t'give a shit at this point, Luc," Sniper rolls his eyes, giving Dmitri's body a slight kick with his heel. "By time anyone finds the time t'care the tosser's gone we'll be long outta here—now I promise you this ain't nothin' personal, Miss, 'nd I really _do_ mean it, but right now I know the only thing standin' between me goin' about my way 'nd not shootin' your brains out is you yourself, Miss…"

Miss Pauling nods silently, her bottom lip still trembling.

"Okay, just please, _please_ don't hurt me…" she whimpers as she silently leads the men back upstairs, Sniper pocketing the revolver inside of his vest.

"Don't tip 'er off with any sort o'funny expressions, I'll kill you both if you try," Sniper growls, Miss Pauling weeping as they pass a guard in the atrium.

"Keep walkin', darlin'…" Sniper reminds her, Luc striding quickly on the other side of her. "Y'got the ringer ready?"

"I—I—_MERDE_!" Luc curses as he pats his breast, the golden pocket watch clearly no longer on his person. "I—I cannot find it—!"

"Fuck, Luc, _y'kiddin'_ me?! _Don't you go anywhere_—" Sniper growls at the obedient Miss Pauling, who shakes still as the two men stand outside of the door, debating on what to do next.

"We don't have time t'look, Luc, either Scout'll be done for or someone'll find the body before we even have the chance t'remember where you left it—"

"I did not _leave_ it somewhere, it was dropped! It must 'ave slipped from my pocket when I fought wizh Marino—!"

"So what do we do, then, mate?!" Sniper growls, and Luc shakes his head wildly, silently shrugging and leaning against the wall.

"If we're gonna go in there with a fightin' chance, then I'd say the next best thing t'do would be t'take down one o'them guards 'nd try takin' that rifle,"

"Zhe rifle…?"

"Yeah. You sneak me in 'nd I get up t'that balcony. I take a snipe at 'er 'nd boom, we take Lawrence 'nd hightail it outta here. She won't be movin', so it won't be hard, there's no way I'll miss,"

"Mr. Mundy I will _not_ let you attempt to assassinate the—" Miss Pauling quits speaking as the man puts the revolver to her temple, not even turning his gaze away from Luc as he does so.

"Jack, if we shoot and _kill_ 'er zhe whole base will immediately be on lockdown, we will be killed on sight—!"

"'Nd what other ideas 've we got here, Luc?!"

"Certainly we 'ave ones better zhan killing zhe CEO of RED, BLU, and TF Industries!"

All three heads turn to the door as a faint scream emanates from the other side, Sniper instantly snarling and turning to face the door outright.

"_Oh God, Lawrence…_ Jack whimpers, his hands curling along the surface of the cool metal, sleek in their descension like water dribbling against glass.

"I don't need a plan, Luc, not when she's hurtin'im in there; I got a gun 'nd that'll get us loads o'places—I'm real sorry, Miss, I really am, I promise I won't hurt you if y'jus'help us out, jus' please get me in there!" Sniper mutters in the woman's ear, giving her time to collect herself before bringing her small hands to fumble with the keyring.

"Jack, I—I am going to go back downstairs and find zhe Ringer, it cannot 'urt to 'ave it—"

"Don't take too long, y'hear me?! Jus' ditch it if y'can't find it after too long, 'cause once I kill 'er I'm takin' 'im and I ain't lookin' back—HURRY UP, PAULING!" Sniper screams down the woman's neck as more of Scout's groaning suggests he is once again a victim of excruciating methods of interrogation. Sniper stumbles in, the weight of the door flying open with such intensity it dents the concrete wall. He stalks upon his long legs cautiously but quickly, each step nearing him to the center of the room, revolver drawn and pointed acutely at the black and silver head of the frowning Administrator.

Scout shakes violently in his restraints, his face scarred with pocks representing all shades of puce the spectrum had to offer, welts of various sizes left behind by the burns of the woman's cigarette. Where his skin was not literally burned off, his flesh flushes to match the bluish green scars that plague it. Still bleeding gashes emit cascading blood in a thick, sludge like manner, dripping into his open mouth. His right arm dangles lifelessly at a painfully unorthodox angle over the edge of the table, suggesting the limb to have been broken. Still, Scout summons just enough energy to sit up as much as the straps allow him to at the sight of the Australian, his voice cracking as he desperately calls his name—

"Pauling what is this?!" the woman shrieks in a rage filled rasp, though not flinching as Sniper roars, striding ever closer and cocking the revolver.

"JACK, STOP!" Scout calls, hoisting himself in time to see the older woman pull a pistol from a holster around her thigh. The loud pop of the firearm and the slim bullet's slicing of the air deafens Scout temporarily, as does the ferocious scream of pain that follows thereafter; Sniper sinks to his knees, curling his hand over his newly wounded left shoulder, the arm it belongs to tensing as the muscles lock.

"Good Lord, you are all such failures…" She spits, striding her way over to the moaning man whose hunch causes the composure of his body to congeal so powerfully his nose nearly touches the frigid ground. The woman wrenches the man so he faces her directly in the eye, though his unable to match hers in contempt and strength, for they are squinted under the influence of agony. She doesn't seem bothered that his blood too now stains her cold, bony hands, the flesh nearly blue from a lack of circulation, paling when compared to the deep red of her thickly coated nails. The woman shows no signs of either hearing Scout's whimpers nor Jack's grunts and hissing, and she swings her forearm back so her wrist aligns with her ear, bringing the hand wielding the pistol to slap sharply across the Australian's jaw.

"Enough of this; I have had enough of this," the woman barks, fishing the revolver Jack had armed himself with just a minute ago and tossing that too, Scout gulping as the cool metal skids smoothly, its velocity dissipating right as it reaches the edge of the brown table he rests upon.

"PAULING!" the woman stands to her feet, pushing Sniper so he falls against his back, his hand still clutching the shot shoulder. "Where is the Frenchman and Marino?" she spits coolly, lighting a cigarette and glaring distastefully at her young assistant.

"M—Marino is _dead_, Miss Ingram—"

"Nonsense, I will hear no more of it; I have allowed the six of you to take turns _raping_ my patience as is and I refuse to bend over backwards and say nothing as my time is wasted further—_I will ask you again, Pauling_: where is Marino—"

"Miss Pauling would be zhe last person to spread lies, Miss Ingram," Luc calls coolly from the doorway, the seething, rage filled glare narrowing the Administrator's eyes so intensely it is a wonder she can see the man at all.

The Frenchman does, however, take immediate notice to the writhing Australian and his own contribution of bloodshed, yet another of her floors sullied by their physical injuries.

'_Jack, you imbecile…_' the man thinks nervously, his teeth grinding, the whole of him on edge as he tried his best to maintain a deadpan demeanour as the woman's scathing, repugnant frown means to scare him down. Though the attention of the silent room turns to Scout, who still lies strained against the table, his repetitive whining of the Australian's name not going unheard by anyone other than the one he calls after.

"Pauling, silence him, I am trying to hold a conversation with this gentleman and the shouts of his _stepson_ begging for the Sniper are distracting me," The Administrator commands of her assistant, stepping over the Australian and making her way to Luc himself.

"_What are you waiting for—?!_" Miss Pauling hisses as the young woman still stands with her back against the wall, hands pressed against her chest.

"W—what…?"

"Do not _what_ me, Pauling, hush him up, I cannot hear his stepfather over his _crying_—"

"With—with what—?"

"For God's sake, Pauling, there is a gag on the table, there is even a pistol _next_ to him! I don't care _how_ you get him to shut up, God help me if you do not!" she snarls, and Pauling rushes behind her boss, Scout's cries and shouts of the man's name now muffled presumably behind the wad of fabric the young woman forces into his mouth.

"Learn to control your stepson, Rousseau," the Administrator spits, her eyes glaring him up and down. He simply gapes, his eyes travelling to the bound and gagged figure of the one he would go as far to call a biological son. "He has a tendency to talk back as well as out of turn. I am familiar with your history and I know he may have grated you to the point of being unfit to actually _parent_ him in the past, but that still is no excuse for not attempting to hammer _manners_ into him now as an adult; as a matter of fact, I would encourage it,"

Sniper groans dully again in the silence provided by the Administrator's cursory glance over at the stifled Scout, the man's moans of pain falling quieter as the gunshot wound almost dulls the flesh around it.

"Not that he'd be able to put his new skills to practice after today."

Luc says nothing, but instead watches as his youngest child succumbs to exhaustion, the restraints not letting up no matter how he alternates between harsh and soft movements.

"You watch him as if you pity him; well I can tell you he deserves anything _but_ your pity. The Scout earned every beating he got, be it due to his disloyalty or his recurring desire to backtalk one with little patience; regardless we are wasting time discussing the condition of the ridiculous _trainwreck_ of a victim of your parenting skills. I am not concerned with Lawrence for now, but rather this rumour that Mr. Dmitri Marino is dead; Turn around."

The Frenchman complies with her demands, her head twisting upon her extended neck in order to scrutinize him thoroughly from all angles.

"Rousseau, why are you covered in blood?" she croaks in a tired rasp she calls a _voice_, Luc clearing his throat as he pats his moist front, the fabric of his suit gritty, the stitching a brittle dry as the liquid forever seeps into the fibers of the pinstripes. His lips tremble, the enervated Scout uncertain as to whether or not the Frenchman was simply playing the part of subdued coyness for the sake of making an impression or because he had truly been cornered to speechless cluelessness.

"Whose blood is it, or else why are you soaked in your own," the Administrator spits, Luc clearing his throat and nodding curtly.

"I fear I must admit it is zhe blood of Marino…"

"Luc, you _bloody idiot_-!" Jack hisses shrilly, weakly, rapid blood loss deteriorating the strength with which he would prefer to project the exclamation. Miss Ingram shows no sign of having heard the man, Luc's diagonal cast of his eyes conveying that he, however, had.

"_Why_?" she asks softly, templing the tips of her talons, a soft clack resonating as the tips of the slashing nails peak together. "Why must you all give me so much _trouble_, why must Fitzpatrick and Mundy betray me so, when I give them _freedom_, I provide their lives with purpose and _security_, I _pay_ them, I guarantee them a place in this changing world! Why must they defy me so, Rousseau?"

Luc shakes his head thoughtlessly, allowing his eyes to fall shut, droplets of Dmitri's blood galloping noiselessly against the checkered linoleum floor.

"Why must they betray my trust and their comrades without any good _reason_ for rebellion?! Do you take me for a fool?!" she roars, catlike, her voice echoing off the walls, cracking the barrier of silence. "Do you take me as someone so easily manipulated?!"

"N-no ma'am-"

"_I am not speaking to you, Pauling!_" she growls, bending to her knees and bringing Jack's face so it's only inches away from her own. "_Who are you without me, Mundy?!_"

The man does not even respond, completely drained of any healthy shade that should otherwise tint his skin, the whole of his red shirt and vest sopping too in blood. "Your medals, your record, your title, your salary, your _citizenship_, you would have not even met _Fitzpatrick_ had you not become an employee of my own. Even that which you are so ready to abandon my trust for, you only have because of _me_!"

She picks up the pistol, narrowing her eyes and shooting the man in his other arm, Jack howling again in agony.

"And _you_, Rousseau, had I not stationed you in Boston all those years ago you would have never met Fitzpatrick's mother! You _all_ owe me everything!" she explains coldly, placing the revolver into Miss Pauling's trembling hands. "I _give, and give and give_, and yet you all seem so easily to forget that I can take it all away! I of course do not want to _have_ to terminate my loyal mercenaries; I do want to give you all the benefit of a doubt, _administer_ second chances-yet I find I am the one looking a bullet between the eyes, and I shall have no more of it. Speaking of, Pauling, fetch form I-37C,"

"_The death notice_?"

"Well unless I am being pulled along even _still_, I believe we do have a deceased Marino somewhere within the building," she snarls, bringing her cold, grueling eyes to Luc's. Miss Pauling slips through the door quietly, returning seconds later with a packet in her hands, the woman producing a fountain pen and giving the woman a curt, fearful nod.

"_Why_, Rousseau?" she asks tiredly, the Frenchman clearing his throat and exchanging a short glance with Pauling, who beckons him to hurry with her eyes, pen scrawling facts already known in the appropriate spaces.

"…_'e was interrogating me-_"

"As if I do not already know this!"

"'e was trying to press details of zhe plan out of me…"

"So then you admit there _was_ a plan centered around Fitzpatrick and his escape?!"

"I do not," Luc responds hushedly. "I 'eard from Lawrence zhat Dmitri was after 'im and was attempting to kill 'im, zhreatening 'im wizh zhe photos 'e took of 'imself cloaked as Jack _wizh_ Lawrence 'imself-"

"Rousseau you maybe be a most cunning and talented Spy-much more so than Marino-though I highly advise you do not lose sight of whom it was _who trained you_, and how transparent your acting could appear to those also inclined to recognize a two faced liar for what he is," she snaps, the Frenchman falling silent abashedly.

"I can understand you fear, Mr. Rousseau; I am not so heartless of a person that I do not understand that there are lengths you are willing to travel if it means protecting your stepson, even though he disrespects you and would, were I to guess, never do the same for you. Because you are so valuable to me I can assure you you will not be losing your life today, though your willingness to deceive me shall not go unpunished.

Marino was interrogating you, and I am certain you held your tongue, as I had trained you to do when caught in such scenarios. I am most pleased to see I have taught you well. How then, did it lead to fruitless chitchat to a dead Italian I will need replaced in a week's time?!"

"'E pulled 'is knife on me, and I only react from instinct!"

"Why in the world would he pull his knife on you?! Pauling, are you getting this-?!"

"'E simply did, Miss Ingram, I am afraid I cannot tell you much else about 'is zhought process,"

"I see-Pauling, document the death as being a casualty of war. Label Rousseau as his killer and post it on the killfeed. File the paper accordingly and scan a copy to send to his mother," she commands heartlessly.

"You do not seem troubled…"

"I could hardly stand the idiot; he served his purpose and served it well enough. He was expendable and moronic, and I can assure you his death is only trouble insofar I will have to pay Octavio over time to clean the room you gutted him in,"

"That's so harsh, Miss Ingram…"

"Only because you all bring me so far, Miss Pauling," she snaps, lifting her heel over Jack's freezing body, rendered cold and pale due to blood loss.

"Mr. Mundy is losing blood quickly, Miss Ingram; should he not get patched up and taken care of, he will certainly die,"

"Nonsense, the man has suffered much more fatal injuries," she spits, Lawrence, who still lies strapped upon the table, the saliva drenched gag tumbling from his lips like frothing yeast, narrowing his eyes nervously as the Administrator approaches him, unstrapping the leather around his chest and discarding the cloth in his mouth indignantly.

"_Jack_-!"

"Pauling, restrain him," she commands, Miss Pauling hesitating, for his front is stained too with blood, the woman jumping as Lawrence swears violently, for the whole of his body is completely sore.

"Lawrence Fitzpatrick I have attempted to gather the whole of the truth on the matter. Your defiance however has earned you all the maiming you are currently suffering, and even still you refuse to say anything on the matter. Your selfishness has caused the death of Marino, punishment upon your doctor and stepfather, _and_, should you refuse to comply with the following commands, death for your _Sniper_," Lawrence whimpers, his one, non swollen eye fixed on the still Australian, his frame shaking violently, his lips trembling. "Pauling, check Mundy's pulse,"

"…he's still alive, Miss Ingram, though his breathing is heavy,"

"Then I do not have much longer," she snaps, pushing Lawrence so he slams against the ground, the young man colliding against the concrete like earth, groaning and coiling rigidly, unable to make any other motions in his condition. "Mister Rousseau I suggest you give each of these men a succinct goodbye; though, depending on the young man's decision, only one of them would have been in vain," she explains, bringing Lawrence to suffer on his knees, the tip of the revolver pressed lightly to his temple. "Since you two are so desperate to shatter that which I give you, I shall see to it you two are the ones to shatter it yourselves,"

"Lawrence-"

"Pauling, escort Rousseau out of the room-"

"_Lawrence_!"

"Miss Pauling, he will not budge!"

"Then if he wants to witness the execution of his own stepson, who am I to stop him?!" she shouts, shoving the barrel of the rifle into Lawrence's mouth, the young man choking at the taste of iron and gunpowder trickling down the back of his throat. Her hands snarl around the back of Scout's head, lodging the firearm deeper into his mouth. "Certainly you have sucked his cock enough to be able to take something so small," she sneers, Pauling shifting and shielding her eyes with the palm of her tiny hands. "Make your choice, Lawrence-" she hisses in his ear, his cries muffled by the metal pointed down his esophagus. "Do you love him?!" she shouts, and she slides the revolver from between his lips again. Scout whimpers as he steals a glance at the barely conscious Jack, who lies submerged in pooling blood, hardly able to shake his own head _no_, hoping the young man catches the gesture.

"Deny him, Scout, and I shall spare your own life-by shooting him I would take him out of his misery. Look at him, he's suffering, Lawrence! _I'll ask a final time; do you love him?!_" she snaps again, Luc white faced as he watches his stepson in horror as he nods as best he can with what little strength he has.

"I do-"

"Larry, no!" Jack roars, the woman shooting the man a third time, bringing the revolver to slip into his mouth a final time, dragging the front sight of the revolver to swish along the inside of the shaking Scout's cheeks.

"Rousseau, tell him now how much you love him, tell his mother he died a lovestruck boy-" a soft click echoes as the woman pulls the trigger, her forehead scrunching as she clicks it yet a few more times, the whimpering Lawrence opening his eyes as he finds himself still alive.

"_Good Lord_…" she spits, cracking the grip of the gun against Lawrence's skull, dazing him instantly. "_PAULING_!"

"Yes ma'am?"

"Fetch me Marino's pistol under the table," she spits, tossing her own exasperatedly, Lawrence spitting blood onto his knees and crawling his way slowly toward Jack's frozen form, burying his face into the man's neck, thanking _God_ the man still miraculously lives-

"_Lawrence…_" Luc whispers, falling to his knees next to their figures, keeping his eyes on the nagging women. "Jack said-Jack told me zhat I was not to let you claim you loved 'im…"

"That ain't gonna happen, Luc…" the young man croaks, resting his head against Jack's bleeding chest, which heaves slowly with his heavy, slow breath.

"Lawrence, it would save your life-"

"And you both are fuckin' stupid for ever thinkin' I'd take Jack's to save my own…"

"'E said 'e was willing to _die_ for you, we agreed to zhis!"

"And I'm willin' to die for _us_," the young man whispers, the last few blows to the head having clearly disoriented his mental state, his speech slurred, the young man drooling blood, dripping onto the Australian's cheek, Lawrence bringing his mangled, shriveled hand to rub the liquid in an attempt to smear it clean, the mire simply mingling with the icy cheek, painting it a subtle pink instead.

"'E would kill you if 'e were conscious…"

"I think Ingram wants to beat him to it…"

"-Pauling, I will not stand for this insubordination!"

The mousey woman still holds her ground, folders tucked under her arms and pressed tightly against her breast, her soft eyes closed solemnly.

"I cannot assist you in the execution, Miss Pauling-"

And so the Administrator pushes the weightless woman aside, drawing Dmitri's pistol and craning it at Lawrence, who allows himself a few seconds to lean across Jack affectionately, careful to maintain his defiant gaze with the woman.

"I hope he was worth it until the end, Fitzpatrick."


	39. The End, Caduceus

Caduceus

by ~DingDongFootball

Dust, sprinkled about the heavily sanitzed air like infectious pocks clustered randomly on the flesh of a sickly child, swirls overhead like an infant's mobile, twirling in the nonexistent breeze. The smotes are colour`ed a powder blue, a fault of the subtle cornflower paintjob that brightens the infirmary walls. The dome shaped windows spaced in between the beds draw in a bright, early August sunlight, though thankfully sparing the inhabitants of the room proper the sweltering heat of torturous, Gregorian altercations.

Water drips from an unknown source, silent and nothing more than an auditory backdrop for the silent Heinrich and his work. His black leather shoes are greased and shined to the point of beaconry, the German's clacking heels sounding in even strides against the warm, sunbaked floor, the wrinkled material actually warming in the dispersed pockets of natural illumination. The hem of his coat sweeps the spotless ground in a swishing rhythm perfectly in sync with that of his step. The high power sanitizer he utilized nightly prevents any residue from dyeing the coat a muddled grey, the very same sanitizer leaving behind no traceable smell, hence why it had so quickly become his favourite to use. His sigh is lighter than usual in that irritation is not what triggers it; the man extends an arm and nearly wrenches the contraption from its holster, the bulky fix up giving a faint squeak as the man adjusts the medigun angled from the ceiling to focus on the gunshot wound in Sniper's chest, lying just below his bruised collarbone.

He licks his lips, taking the thin, untainted steel of the scalpel and using the leverage of the man's muscle to pluck a small, dime sized bullet from the cavity - the third one of his hospitalisation, in fact - his other hand raising the settings of the medigun so as to nullify the sensation for the Australian who slowly parts his eyes for the first time in three days.

"Jack," the German whispers, his voice merely a breath, any sort of emotional expression having been shocked from the man over the course of the week. He brings a small light into his hands, twisting it into his fingers, parting the Australian's eyelids with his latex protected fingertips and shining it indiscriminately into the grey iris, nodding as Jack's pupil dilates in a sufficient amount of time. Sniper says nothing as his mind settles into concrete awareness, the man the most conscious and alert he had been for the past three days. His heart tears and his head pounds as if the aforementioned organ had risen to pump right between the temples, a noticeable though not exactly painful pressure fogging his senses. His upper body may be sore and raw, but it's not a pain that causes him to cry audibly. Instead he watches as Medic sanitizes his own wound, occupied by the sight of the German dragging soaked wipes across the mangled gash for a good forty seconds before observing the blood the German transfuses into his body. Jack's smoky eyes trail slowly along the stand next to the bed, thankful to see the man had not taken advantage of his state and removed any organs from his body purely for research purposes.

"You are lucky to be alive."

He locks eyes with the Australian, for whom the words take time to settle and manifest themselves into any sort of meaning beyond spoken thoughts. The man, completely naked, though covered by crisp, admittedly comfortable white blankets, allows his exhaustion lidded eyes to travel about the infirmary slowly, the doctor unaware of whether or not they can truly and functionally process all they see. He follows the Australian's gaze over to Archimedes, who perches upon his rest in a small, metal domed cage a ways away, the dove's eyes closed, rustling his feathers as he basks in the light of the sun. He coos, though receives no response from his aviary friends, the rest still out on their morning hunt.

"…And Larry?" Jack croaks tiredly, wincing softly as the German injects a cool grey liquid into his forearm. "Tell me for the love_o'God_ my Larry's okay,"

Heinrich discards the needle into a nearby waste bin, crumpling the white paper it came wrapped in and tossing it too. Sniper feels his whole body recluse and lock in a tension so fierce he actually groans and feels his skin taughten and retract across his muscle, like butter scraped over too much bread. It was a result of the shot he'd just received, he assumes mentally, his heart pounding at a slower rate as his loosens, the sensation he'd experienced fading more and more to the point that the only thing to remind him of the happening was a small, prick sized hole in the tanned, scarred skin of his arm. He suffers through yet three more injections of similar proportions, his face stony and unresponsive as he awaits yet another word from Heinrich. The older man nods quickly.

"He's alive."

Jack's lips tremble, his eyes closing from relief. Heinrich tugs on the blanket's hem lying against Jack's chest, tugging it and directing the Medigun's rays onto the bullet wound directly. "Zough not vizout his injuries,"

"'Course, he was _mangled_ by time I got to'im…" the man chokes, Heinrich swallowing heavily.

"Had Luc been even a few minutes later, I fear you vould not have made it, Herr Sniper,"

"Aye…" Jack nods. "'S long as Larry did…"

"He made it, Jack,"

"How?!" Jack asks quietly, finding a little strength within him to laugh, though careful that his chest does not heave too violently. "How in the Hell did any o'us make it, Doc? Really,"

"You vould have to ask Luc, it is because of him you did,"

"Holy shit, y'don't mean it, do ya?"

"Vhy in ze vorld vould I lie at such a time?"

"Right…" Jack sighs, going to-much to both his own and the German's surprise-lift his left arm to scratch gingerly at his shoulder.

"I vas gone right after I vas escorted from her room; ven Lawrence vas brought to me, alive, conscious, zough in critical condition hours later, I vas just as surprised and clueless as yourself-zankful, zough highly surprised. And to see you, also miraculously holding onto life…"

"Where is he, Doc-"

"Who?"

"Lawrence, I need to see him,"

"He's resting, Jack…."

"Still?! He hasn't woken up at all these last three days?!"

"He-he _has_-"

"But?!"

"Lawrence vill need a day or two longer to rest, Jack. Ze boy vas suffering from first degree burns all over his body-"

"He looked like charred meat when I got to 'im, Doc…"

"Zey vill heal-already ze burns are clearing up viz help of ze ointment and ze medigun's rays,"

"Thank God…"

"His condition is easily one of the worst I've encountered; lacerations covered ze boy's body like _moss_, namely ze superior anterior. Zere vere zree breaks in his right arm, one in ze humerous and two in ze radius carpals, completely shattered. According to ze rest of my notes, zere are lacerations covering the lower extremity, mainly anterior femoral and sural. Small incisions between the inferior phalanges. Four metacarpals dislocated at head-"

"I'm not understandin' anything, Doc…"

"And of course, his thumb had to be shorn off at ze trapezium-"

"_Wait_-shorn off, y'mean…" Jack begins, sitting up heavily. "Completely gone?"

"I had to take his zumb and his right foot, Jack, had I not zey vould have been infected and he vould have died-"

"_Y'amputated Larry's foot?!_" Jack whimpers, Heinrich sighing heavily and looking the man chillingly in the eye. "How's 'e supposed t'run, or play baseball?!"

"I'm afraid it could not be saved, Jack-neizer ze foot nor ze zumb,"

"How difficult could it've _been_, Doc?! Y'got machines here that'll bring a damn near zombified _man_ back t'full health, but y'honestly can't find a way in the whole damn bay t'avoid-?!" Jack sighs, the German unphased by the man's aggravated tone, slathering the hot petroleum jelly along his open wounds along Sniper's chest and arms with a thick, clear ointment, a smell mixed between latex and rubbing alcohol plugging the Australian's nostrils to the point of gagging seconds later.

"Herr Sniper, I know it upsets you-"

"Does he even _know_?!"

"Know vat?"

"About his-foot'nd hand…"

"Yes…he knows,"

"Well then I guess I'm the only one that _doesn't_ get it, where's the bloody line drawn, Heinrich?! How can you save our _lives_with all this equipment, but y'still have t'hack off bodyparts like you're a goddamn _butcher_-"

"Zhe line is drawn on vat is _living_, Jack," Heinrich begins darkly. "Zere is nozing I or _any_ of my mezods can do if ze flesh is_dead_," the German snaps, unable to read his face for a good two minutes. "…So then he can't run anymore, can he?!"

"At-_at ze very least_ ze vound in his left hand is healing okay, as is ze break in his arm. Because of ze medigun, I believe he should be fine to be discharged sometime zis afternoon, zough under ze condition zat should he be discharged so early, zere vill still be a few days necessary for his natural recovery…"

"...where is he?"

"Sleeping right next to you. I have him set to sleep manually zhrough a setting on ze medigun, however ze rest helps him, vezer it is artificially initiated or not,"

"'nd me?!"

"Ze same goes for you, Jack…"

"Aye...can I go see him?"

"Yes, zough be careful in your valking and be sure to take slow steps," Heinrich explains warily, taking the needle from Jack's vein, the man assisting him in standing. "He is zere, zree beds down."

Jack could feel his breathing. He could feel his lungs expand calmly under the palm of his warm hand, Lawrence's naked flesh smooth and oiled, the remedy assuredly aiding to heal one of the many ailments under which Scout suffers, that Jack had not fully understood due to the German's word choice. He whimpers as he nebbishly goes to run his hands across the young man's face, his skin warm with a hidden but real vitality he did not expect to sense. Surprise catches his breath as the tips of his fingers smooth across patches of scaly, coal like zones where the skin had either been burned to char, or where no skin resided at all. At the very least he looks peaceful. His eyes shut, the edges of the two lids sealed together so smoothly Sniper cannot find a single fault or wrinkle in either of them.

"What are lacerations, Doc?" Jack asks quietly, placing soft kisses along the young man's forehead and cheeks, not even grimacing once as he takes the burning, minty substance of petroleum jelly like consistency onto his burning, sensitive lips.

"Cuts, Jack; zough cuts more along ze lines of _slashes_. For example, if you look at Lawrence's right arm-ze one zat vas broken-"

"Aye…"

"You vill see it is covered in wrappings. Zis is because ven he first came to me, his hand vas punctured completely zrough ze palm,"

"What's that mean-"

"Exactly vat it sounds like; he must have been stabbed, right zrough ze middle,"

"Bloody Hell, will he be alright?!"

"Ze _vound itself_ has healed, zere is no longer a _hole_, zough I suspect it vill take weeks before ze hand is functional at a normal capacity once more, should he leave today and not spend ze veek under my care,"

"Thank God for modern medicine, I suppose,"

"_Modern Medicine_?! Ze technology I am using is exclusive to zis base, to zis _bay_, Herr Sniper. It is my science viz Rick's engineering. Not even you REDs are so caught up, your Medic still fools around viz _radiation zherapy_…"

Jack scoffs, but ultimately has no interest in attending any further investment in the doctor's broken ego.

"I can feel 'im breathe, Doc…"

"Zat is a good sign," Heinrich sighs, adjusting Lawrence's bed covers.

"So can you wake him up?"

"Vat, right now?!"

"Or-soon-"

"Vy?!"

"Well…_what's today_?"

"August zird…I believe it is a Tuesday…"

"Doc, it's…"

"His birzday, I know," Heinrich finishes the sentence, smiling sadly as the Australian gives the young man a soft kiss on his lips.

"Twenty five, love…" Jack smiles. "Y'made it…"

"Ven he vakes ve vill congratulate him outright, but for now I zink it vould be best for your own condition if you returned to rest…"

"I want t'talk t'him, Doc,"

"I know, Jack, but now is not ze bes-"

The infirmary's heavy oak door parts open, the unmasked Frenchman slipping through and relying on the physics of nature to close it behind him; it does so, but slowly.

"Oi, Luc…" Jack sighs, the older man looking up briefly and nodding, out of breath as he plops into one of the white wire chairs nestled neatly in between each bed. "Zhe men of your base are always so _watchful_, 'Err Doctor; even an experienced Spy such as myself 'ad trouble sneaking zhrough wizhout inciting a problem of sorts…"

"Had I known you vere coming up I vould have escorted you!"

"What's done is done, non?" Luc pants, shutting his eyes and allowing himself a minute of rest. "…I see zhat Jack 'as recovered quite nicely,"

"_Zankfully_ ze man had only gunshot vounds, _however_ he is standing around ven, despite his seemingly healed appearance, he_should_ be back in bed!"

"I want to talk t'Lawrence, Doc!"

"You _vill_ speak viz him, but he is not even _avake_ yet!"

"Logic and Jack are non compatible entities when zhe safety of Lawrence is involved…" Jack smiles warmly, Jack mumbling as he reluctantly settles into his own bed again.

"One vould _zink_ he vould have no disputes about his _safety_, considering it is because of me zey did not _die_ after you brought zem to me!"

"It ain't you, Doc…"

"'E's just in a rush to see 'im 'ealzhy again…"

"Vell, I told him earlier zat he can _zank_ you for ze fact zat zey are boz alive,"

"What?! _Non_, Herr Doctor-" Luc gasps, taking a cigarette from his case before remembering where it was he resided, thus tucking it back inside of the metal holder. "You give yourself too little credit,"

"What happened, Luc," Jack asks coldly, the Frenchman scratching behind his neck as the man wastes no time in uttering a hysterical _"How the Hell did we all get back here?!"_

"_Well_, it was zhree days ago. After zhe Administrator shot you a zhird time, knocking you out _completely_-"

"Vat did you even _do_ to get shot, Jack?!"

"Exactly what you _zhink_ 'e most likely did. She faced Lawrence wizh zhe same ultimatum; eizher 'e was to shoot _you_ a final time to kill you, or 'e was to be killed, sparing you,"

Heinrich blanches, but says nothing, the man weaving around Luc in the aisle and tending to Lawrence in silence.

"She went to shoot 'im in zhe mouzh; 'er revolver, 'owever, 'ad no bullets left,"

"Fuck, mate…"

"So she fought wizh Pauling-"

"Didn't y'tell Larry t'just shoot me like you 'nd I discussed?!"

"'E refused, Jack! And Miss Ingram returned wizh Dmitri's discarded pistol, and aimed it downward, at 'is 'ead,"

"Y'mean he survived a shot t'the _head_?!"

"Well _non_, you see I zhen acted from sheer instinct myself by zhat point. Right as she shot, I tackled 'er,"

"Y'mean it?"

"Zhe shot zhen missed and 'it 'im in zhe leg instead. 'E screamed and was clearly in pain, _alive_, but zhe woman was fuming; she roared and went to aim again, but Pauling-"

"What'd she do?!"

"She intervened, she said it was enough, zhat we 'ad all suffered enough,"

"Girl's prolly traumatized, eh?" Jack chuckles gruffly, bringing his hand to stroke at the visible black stubble sprouting at his unshaven chin. "I reckon she's filin' for a transfer right as we speak,"

"She told us off, for defending 'im, you see, but she took anozher shot wizh 'er pistol at Lawrence-"

"Bloody Hell!"

"And as Pauling yelled for 'er to stop, said she was zhrough. She dropped zhe weapon, gave Lawrence's body a kick, and told us she was beyond done wizh our "_nonsense_", as she called it, and zhat we were all to get out of 'er sight. We 'ad bored 'er, she claimed, and zhat whezher or not you or Lawrence survived was no longer 'er concern, as it was taking up too much of 'er time. She said zhat you two were to never return should you even _survive_, stripped of your rankings, benefits…" Luc clears his throat. "Your bank accounts 'ave been emptied,"

"Oi, she thinks I give a _toss_ 'bout any o'that?!"

"So zhen it got to zhe point where she no longer spoke to me or Pauling-"

"So?!"

"So I took you bozh wizh 'er 'elp and managed to get you settled in zhe confiscated van-"

"Y'managed t'rescue my van?!" Jack whimpers. "You're a bloody hero, mate…"

"Bloody indeed, by time I left zhat building I was covered in everyone's blood but my own! Not to mention carrying you bozh took a strengzh from me I imagine I will never actually gain again,"

"What d'you mean?!"

"Well, I pulled my back very badly, and it _showed_ when I tried outrunning BLU's _Pyro_ downstairs,"

"Did he notice you?"

"No, 'err Doctor, zhough 'e was very suspicious,"

"I can't believe y'got my camper, y'saved Majorie…"

"Hmph-she's now covered in your blood, inside and out, and you now 'ave to put water in zhe radiator every one 'undred twenty kilometers because she overheats, but yes-I managed to bring you 'ere, alert zhe Doc, and 'e instantly began working on you, zhough 'e warned your chances of surviving-particularly _yours_, Jack, were very slim,"

"'Nd look, Luc, we're alive…" Jack shakes his head disbelievingly. "Which I don't understand, why did she just…_quit_ after all that…"

"I imagine she assumed you all would die on your own, after leaving zhe base,"

"Well _oops_, eh?"

"If she knew you were bozh getting care from 'Einrich I imagine she would 'ave us all executed by zhe firing squad,"

"Well _shit_, mate, guess we need t'get outta there then, right?"

"Me? No. I am afraid I must stay,"

"Luc're you mad?! She's not finished with _you_!"

"I know it,"

"So then get the Hell outta dodge, you wanker!"

"And risk 'er attempting to get back at me by 'urting Lawrence furzher? Or seeking out 'is brozhers or mozher? I zhink not. I am scheduled to _meet_ wizh 'er again zhis coming Friday,"

"Bloody Hell, Luc…"

"I imagine I will be punished, but not to your extent; you were all excellent fighters; 'ad you not been she would not 'ave been so reluctant to kill you bozh. 'owever I am particularly indispensible as a Spy and executive of TF Industries. She trained me 'ereself,"

"Regardless, there's no way you're actually gonna go _back_ there, mate-"

"I imagine we will discuss my murdering of Dmitri primarily, zhough she will certainly ask what became of you bozh,"

"And?!"

"I will tell 'er you got away, but zhat is all I know. I do not know if you managed to survive or not,"

"Oi…"

"And zhat should suffice. If by averting zhis meeting I would only succeed in muddling zhings deeper, I'd razher go a'ead and accept my punishment,"

"Then me 'nd Larry need t'get the fuck outta here," Jack spits grimly, casting a look at the resting young man.

"Somezhing I would suggest, yes,"

"But zey need _at least_ zree more days of rest! Ze more I zink about it, ze less ready I am to let you go, Jack!"

"Doc, y'saved our lives, 'nd as long's I'm fit enough t'drive 'nd Larry's fit enough t'exist, we can take care o'the rest on our own! 'Specially 'cause I reckon we ain't got much else for choices, mate,"

"And where would you go, Jack?"

"Like I know, Luc. Boston maybe? I have no bloody idea,"

"Yes, I imagine Boston would be fine; 'e would want to be wizh 'is mozher,"

"What d'you mean?" Jack croaks, his grey eyes travelling the length of Luc's slender legs, for the man still stands.

"What else is zhere _to_ mean, Jack? 'E as suffered a most traumatic experience, and I am more zhan certain a distance put between 'imself and zhis base would be zhe next most fitting zhing for 'is condition besides zhe good Doctor's 'ealing; particularly if zhe distance should lead 'im to 'is 'ometown, 'is _favourite_ place on earzh, and 'is family,"

"Way t'leave _me_ outta the equation," Jack spits indignantly.

"Jack, you are taking it so personally wizhout any good need to do so; it should be an unspoken fact zhat you play per'aps zhe most crucial part in Lawrence's wellbeing,"

"Right, completely _disregard_ ze medicine I have been giving him and ze surgical procedures I have undergone to save his mere _life_," Heinrich slips his own disgruntled quip into the fray, Luc growling, his brow wrinkling like the furls of a well kept accordion.

"Zhese should all be facts so obvious zhey do not even bear _mentioning_! I suggest keeping your cool, Jack, I imagine 'Einrich is touchy about zhe amount of stress you work unto yourself,"

"Zat I am,"

"Well _pardon_," Sniper snaps, rolling his eyes and staring at his folded hands, placed gently in his lap. "Sorry if maybe I get a little _touchy_ at the thought o'Larry runnin' away t'Boston without even _needin'_ me,"

"Jack, you were literally zhe only zhing zhat kept Lawrence going after zhe whole ordeal! I do not see what it is zhat is so difficult for you to understand,"

"Last time I marched into Boston with Lawrence I only ended up sparkin' his eldest brother's _homophobia_. You're right when y'say Scout needs his time alone with his Mum 'nd family,"

"And to not _include_ yourself in _'family'_ is stupid, Jack,"

"Well I reckon Larry's gonna want some personal time with 'em all regardless,"

"'E would not go another inch wizhout you by 'is side,"

"'Nd I don't want his brother castin' him out or causin' a scene 'cause his _Faggot boyfriend_ tagged along,"

"I am pretty sure Christopher could make an _exception_ for zhe man zhat is responsible for Larry 'aving made it out alive, regardless of 'is sexual preference," Luc snaps matter of factly, the even, coolness of his tone suggesting the man to have had enough of the Australian's irrational anxiety. "Even if 'e can be difficult at times."

"Responsible for seein' he came out alive?! I reckon that's more your title than mine, Luc," Jack whispers. "'F it weren't for me fallin' for Larry, he never woulda been caught up in all of it, y'know?! I'm sure his folks wouldn't be too keen on me if they knew it was 'cause of his feelin's for me he got dragged t'see her in the first place,"

"Which is why we will not say anyzhing about it; we will tell 'er Lawrence was gravely injured in battle and discharged accordingly,"

A clink of a small glass trinket colliding lightly against one of Heinrich's metal tables starts Jack, though only in the form of a slight twitch of his whole frame. Ignoring the German's breathy, subdued scoff, Jack, caught in between the roar of his thoughts and the cry of anxiety deafening his ears, wrinkles the tip of his long nose, the distinct burn of vinegar stinging in the ducts of his nostrils. The silence shared between the three (technically _four_) men allowing the man to check out of four of five senses, focusing entirely on the tang of the festering liquid and its potent presence. Its burn at the small, black nose hairs that curl in tiny, essentially nonexistent rings along the cartilage of his inner nose, appears and registers itself within him inoffensively enough, Jack's eyes coming to water, the molecules of the acetic acid infecting the air like invisible fireballs.

"I wonder if it vould be _vorz_ it, for Jack…" Heinrich begins cryptically, putting a stopper back in the glass vial as he takes mental note of the Australian and his stinging, swollen eyes.

"_What, is what worth what_?!" Jack starts, Luc turning his head in silent interest as well. Heinrich hiccups slightly, and like sand drizzling lazily over a lucid surface, the grains cascading over its cool, borrowed space in the form of a glassy waterfall, the colour in his face draws itself back in slow succession, filtering to where Sniper could only presume was the bottom of his feet. "Zere is more…" he whimpers, Jack watching the man's gloved hands and the way the tips of his long fingers press themselves flat against Lawrence's temples.

"More _t'what_," Jack growls, and the German messes with yet a couple more settings upon the black minigun, Sniper's eyes fixed on a subtle, light blue heat that radiates from its circular nozzle, disappearing into what appears to be the back of the young man's head.

"…Lawrence's condition,"

"_What about it-_"

"I too would like to know, 'Einrich," Luc adds tersely, the German's shoulders heaving, the man expelling a heavy sigh under their gazes.

"I simply fear zat driving to Boston vould not be vise,"

"And _why_, Doc,-"

"_Jack, please, remain calm-_"

_Why're_ y'havin' second thoughts," Jack begins quickly, aggressively, ignoring Luc's quiet, rational plea meant to call out to the usually relaxed and cool headed Australian who now stands amongst the company of men, his temper, calm, and collectiveness at a rarely crossed, though fine and fanatic edge.

"I did not vant to tell you, Jack-"

"Tell me what?! Out with it, Heinrich!"

"I simply fear zat he vould die along ze vay," Heinrich belts firmly, the speed with which his statement is spoken proving that despite the firmness of his resolve he still teeters on nervousness. The German finds himself unable to look either the young man's stepfather nor his lover in the eye, his hands quivering as he attempts to divert the sudden tension that swims about the room like infectious congestion with the medigun hanging in the contraption off the ceiling.

"Why in the world would y'be afraid o'that, Doc?!" Jack begins calmly, his voice literally quivering as he struggles to _maintain_it so, however. "You sayin' I wouldn't be able to take care o'him?!"

"No, Jack, _no_," Heinrich groans, still avoiding the man's eye.

"What do you mean to _say_, 'Einrich?" Luc asks quietly of the doctor, a lot softer and less accusatory than his comrade. "I too would like to know why you fear my son would not make it 'ome,"

"'Nd if it's _me_," Jack growls, Heinrich roaring before slamming his hands on the metal table loudly, turning on his heels to glare wildly at the Australian.

"Have you heard of a _hemorrhage_, Jack?"

"What? Heinrich-" Jack starts, actually rising from his covers and tossing them off his lightly clothed frame. "'Course I heard of 'em, jus' 'cause I've never been t'medical school, that doesn't mean I'm completely clueless-why?" Sniper asks quickly, Heinrich's gloves sliding slickly across the German's increasingly sweaty hands. "What's one got t'do with anythin'?!"

"Jack-"

"Now you're wastin' my _time_, Doc, I don't understand what your problem is with me takin' Larry back t'Boston,"

"…Are you _familiar_ viz hemorrhages?"

"Vaguely, now what's the problem-"

"Vell, judging by ze amount of abuse Lawrence had suffered under ze Administrator's vatch, I vas left to believe ze young man's head vas slammed repeatedly against a hard surface-presumably ze table she had him strapped to?"

"How d'you know anythin' about it?!"

"Luc, of course, he told me ze details of your injuries and torture as best he could recount; now vat I mentioned about Lawrence's abuse is a hypozesis of mine zat stems from various skull fractures found in his x-rays-"

"'Nd _what's_ this got t'do with me gettin' Larry outta here?! I don't understand why the fuck it is y'don't trust me with 'im!"

"_IT IS BECAUSE LAWRENCE IS SUFFERING FROM INTERNAL BLEEDING OF ZE BRAIN, AND ZEREFORE HAS TWO DAYS TO LIVE, IF HE IS EVEN ZAT LUCKY!_" he screams so loudly Archimedes starts in his cage, squaking as opposed to cooing as usual, the metal dome swinging on its singular hinge like a gentle breeze flowing through the weightless notes of an ambient windchime. He rests his forehead in his hands, Jack stunned as the doctor's words hit him with a force so unexpected he feels his chest constrict as a few dumbfounded seconds replace his ability to breathe with a devastated shock in its wake. "Lawrence could hardly even _speak_ ven I last voke him up!"

"Zhat is nonsense…" Luc starts, shifting his legs as a distinct physical awareness reminds the man he'd been standing in place for much too long. "Per'aps-per'aps you 'ave it all wrong-"

"RIGHT, BECAUSE WE HAVE ALL THE ROOM IN THE WORLD T'GUESS, EH?!" Jack screams, now standing at full height to glare at the two men who watch the flared Australian warily.

"LOOK AT YOU BOTH, NEITHER O'YOU GIVE A BLOODY _SHIT_! Y'TALK ABOUT HIS CONDITION JUST LIKE _HER_, THE WHOLE LOT O'YA! TOSS HIS BODY OUT FOR TUESDAY RUBBISH COLLECTION 'ND SHED A TEAR, EH? LITTLE _LAWRENCE_, THE BLU SCOUT, WE HARDLY KNEW YE-"

"Jack, _please_…"

"PLEASE _NOTHIN'_, LUC, 'S CLEAR 'S DAY T'ME NEITHER OF YOU GIVE A FLYIN' _TOSS_ ABOUT LAWRENCE-"

"Jack, zat is _ridiculous_ and I _vill_ not have you insult me in my own infirmary! Ze very notion zat Scout's condition or future means little to me is nozing _short_ of a spit to my face!" Heinrich retorts in quick, angry hysteria, his German features glowing a smoldering, infuriated red, his cheeks filling with little puffs of nervousness in between each breath he takes.

"First y'take his bloody _foot_-"

"Jack, it was necessary, it would 'ave infected zhe rest of 'is body!"

"Then y'knock 'im out for a whole bloody three days straight, 'nd now y'wanna tell me he's hardly gonna be twenty five for a day before he-?!" Jack whimpers, throwing his hands wildly into the air.

"Jack, you act as if I haven't given you _boz_ my all zis last veek, as if I haven't put my own life on ze line to ensure your protection and survival!"

"It's his _birthday_, Doc, it's his goddamn _birthday_,"

"…Zhis…." Luc begins quietly, producing a thin white letter from his chest, placing it softly onto the young man's beside table, Jack's heart sinking as his eyes instantly adjust to recognize Julie's looping cursive written about it's surface. "It was in my mailbox zhis morning,"

"And vat is it…?"

"A birzhday card, I would expect," Luc sighs. "From 'is mozher,"

"…and she knows nozing, correct? She has no idea vat has been going on…"

"She will certainly be expecting zhat Lawrence calls 'er tonight to accept 'er wishes in person,"

"'Nd y'don't even _care_, you all sound like you couldn't care _less_ what happens t'Larry!"

"Lawrence is my _life_, Jack!" Luc gasps, his eyes wavering in their locked stare upon the checkered floor. "….'Is mozher, 'is brozhers, zhey all mean more to me zhan anyzhing in all of zhe world…and unfortunately for _you_ you were unconscious during zhe last zhree days and nights I 'ave spent by Lawrence's side, watching over 'is condition every free moment I've _had_,"

"You are not ze only one who cares for Lawrence, Jack-ve all love him in our own vays-"

"Right, so _y'butcher_ 'im, 'nd ya literally toss parts o'his body in the trash, 'nd just let his _goddamn head bleed_,"

"I did not _let_ it bleed, Jack, and to say I do not understand your predicament is _ignorant_ on all accounts, Jack Mundy! Did you not hear vat it vas I myself had to endure?! I know ze position you are boz standing in perhaps better zan any ozer individual on zis Earz!" Heinrich hisses, his eyes narrowed at Jack behind his glasses. "I _vas_ separated from Mikhail, Jack; ve ran ze very same course as yourselves in an even more dangerous time and setting. I vas in love viz my enemy, he viz me. You had each _ozer_ zrough vat just happened back zere. I vas sent to ride in an overcrowded boxcar for zree days, sent to ze biggest deaz camp German had established. I vas _separated_ from him, Jack, and vas barely rescued in time! Did you not forget ze vay I suffered under ze same torture, but for _monz_, _vizout_ ze support of ozers, or my love by my side, and vas discharged on my own vizout money or clozes, _barely one hundred pounds_, and did not know vezer or not Mikhail had even survived ze end of ze var?! I vas not reunited viz him until 1950, Jack, and here you are, viz Lawrence by your side, viz me fighting ze best _I_ can to keep him alive! And you say I do not care, or understand vere you two are coming from? An insult," Heinrich spits, the Australian bowing his head shamefully as the German's voice tapers off coldly for five minutes' time.

"…Sorry, Doc, I-" Jack growls sheepishly, the German ignoring him before continuing directly. "Now I performed x-rays on him zree days ago, and ze procedure produced evidence of a fractured skull, as vell as ze images of potential bleeding,"

"P'tential?"

"Vell…" Heinrich begins, quieter and much less aggressive now it appears Jack is ready to listen. "As soon as I saw ze results of ze x-ray, I immediately ran anozer series of tests to better pinpoint vat could be wrong viz Lawrence's head,"

"Aye!"

"Z-zere _is_ a chance, a slim chance, I could have it all wrong-"

"There isn't _room_ for chance, Heinrich!" Jack pleads, the German's heart breaking as he sees that silent tears streak down the man's cheeks rapidly, moistening his rugged, bruised, unshaven face. "Not when my Larry's involved!"

"I am afraid I cannot go off much more-"

"You're a _doctor_, aren't you?!"

"It is not so simple, Jack! I have been agonizing over Lawrence's condition for ze past zree days! Ven I first began to run tests and analyses of his condition, I noticed ze internal bleeding right avay…"

"So why didn't you try t'stop it, Doc? You've got all these machines, this _medicine_, you've got the ability to heal gunshot wounds in two days-"

"I can only cure as quickly as my technology or research allows, Jack. I may be able to heal broken bones under a veek's proper care-zough Lawrence vill have to be discharged viz only zree days's vorz of treatment-but I cannot cure _cancer_. I can only go so far,"

"So then you're just _givin' up_ on the most precious thing in my life,"

"Never, Jack. I vill _never_ stop fighting for Lawrence, but unfortunately I do not have ze technology or capacity to treat such a vound outside of conventional mezods, and as you are vell avare, zere _are_ no mezods,"

"I do not want to 'ave to tell 'is mozher…" Luc whimpers, a mourning scratch tearing at the even, smooth flow of the French influenced melody of his voice. "By _God_, 'Einrich, I do not want to 'ave to tell 'is mozher zhat 'e cannot come to zhe phone because 'e is _dying_!"

"Do _not_ tell her he is dying, because as it is I do not know for _sure_ if it is a brain hemorrhage under vich he suffers!"

"So then how far are we, Doc…" Jack's voice croaks, the man giving a heavy  
>sniff and bringing a hairy forearm to catch yet more falling tears into their thick, piliferous web. "Y'say there's potential for you t'have diagnosed him wrong, that he may not be dyin' at all; what's the <em>deal<em>, Heinrich,"

"Vell-ze tests I began zree days ago vere meant to determine vezer or not ze vounds to his head vere fatal or not. You see, ze results of ze x-rays zemselves vere too vague; it could eizer be bleeding, or a simple, but severe, concussion. Vere ze bleeding vould most certainly kill him, ze concussion vould certainly hinder him for some time, and I'm sure because of ze severity of head trauma he's endured im sure he vill come out of zis viz some form of a mental deficiency-not necessarily_retardation_, but he vould be ginger viz his movements, his speech. He vould appear tired and drained, unable to handle or process much, but…"

"BUT?!" Jack roars, the Doctor's lip quivering before he answers.

"…But ze trauma vould not kill him,"

"Y'mean t'tell me that Larry's either sufferin' from a _concussion_ or lethal internal _bleedin' o'the brain_…" Jack questions quietly overtop Luc's weighted sniffs, the Frenchman sobbing quietly into the palm of his large hand.

"I'd like t'know _why the Hell_ you're havin' trouble determinin' a certain answer, mate,"

"Ze trouble comes from ze fact zat _anozer_ series of tests I had begun zat very same zree days ago have yet to varrant complete results,"

"'Nd we ain't got time t'wait around t'figure out, we've got t'be outta here by tonight at the latest, Heinrich,"

"And so, viz Lawrence leaving ze bay early, you leave vizout ze results, and a fifty fifty chance of Lawrence surviving past tomorrow night at most,"

"So then it's a gamble, it's a literal _gamble_," Jack sighs, his swollen eyes still producing yet more tears from their salted ducts. "Bloody Hell,"

"Regardless, ve vill need Lawrence voken up sometime zis afternoon. Jack, if you feel it is ze right zing to do, you vill need to 'ead to Boston viz Lawrence by zis evening, especially if ze administrator expected you boz to be dead and gone ze day ve managed to escape her headquarters,"

"Aye…"

"Luc? Vat is your plan? Are you crying?" the German asks in fearful meekness, gasping slightly as his fellow middle aged peer produces a satin hankerchief from his breast pocket, dabbing his eyes lightly. "Well we _are_ discussing zhe lifespan of who may as well be my _son_. But-ahem-I would like to say my goodbyes to 'im before zhey set off, as I'm sure you would,"

"Of course, who knows ven I vill see him again," Heinrich sighs, reflecting on the thought for a few seconds' time before catching his breath. "So you are staying behind, I take it?"

"I 'ave no choice," Luc whispers.

"What d'you mean _goodbyes_, mate," Jack growls, the two men only just now noticing the Australian stands at the side of the young man's bed, his wrapped hand caught in a gentle encompassment of Jack's own undamaged palms.

"Well if you two are leaving tonight, and I am still expected to remain on base as an employee of RED, zhen I will not see Lawrence again until zhe next time I am granted leave," Luc hisses firmly, a light shudder trailing down Jack's spine, registering that the man's words imply that Lawrence was live until then.

"…Zherefore I want to tell 'im to stay safe and zhat I will see 'im soon for presumably zhe Zhanksgiving 'oliday and 'ope zhat zhis particular celebration will prove to be more positive zhan zhose we 'ad shared togezher in zhe past; I am certain you can understand where I am coming from,"

"Right," Jack nods, forcing himself to smile smally as he tucks a hand to cradle Lawrence's cheek. "I reckon the two o'ya 're gonna share a holiday right special after all this."

-

"Hm?" Jack asks the young man he holds in his arms quietly, Lawrence blinking slowly as he grabs hold of the small wicker basket that rests calmly at the tips of their feet, Sniper going to assist him in lifting the flap and producing for him another generous handful of cracked wheat bread that had begun to go sour during his days away from the camper. Scout rattles the small, irregular clusters of deep brown fluff in the basin of his hand, small molecules of hearthened yeast catching in the folds of the fresh wrappings Heinrich had applied before the two had set off for Boston some time ago. Jack presses his lips against Scout's cheek, Lawrence smiling into the gesture with the radiance of pristine linens doused in parfoumy silks. Simultaneous to the Australian's loving peck is also the snaking of his hand and its subtle clasp around Lawrence's wrist, the Bostonian leaning all of his weight against Jack with a firmness that proved to be just as weightless as it was impactful in its imprint against the man's chest.

The fresh air had done them both some good. Lawrence had been resting for seven hours straight, a natural sleep, one without the aid of Heinrich's medigun. Jack, who simply found he couldn't handle the seclusion of driving any longer, had been surprised to enter the camper and find Lawrence sitting up sluggishly in the sea of blankets Jack had prepared for him, calling the Australian's name softly. They'd exchanged words of missing each other, and agreed on a break, the drive having taken a toll on the two injured men and their wayward trek toward Boston. He figured it was okay to stop there, somewhere between the border of Missouri and Illinois, and rest a bit along the edge of a moderately sized lake nestled in the nature that ran along side the freeway. At the very least Lawrence seemed supportive himself, having instantly spotted frogs and ducks carrying on as marine life was wont to do, ducks being his favourite animal and a glaring weakness of his.

Jack winces as, hand in hand, the man lifts his arm gingerly to extend Lawrence's before them both like a tenuous catapult, Jack's stomach fluttering as his thumb brushes across the soft flesh of Lawrence's fingers. His shoulder twinges, the appendage having once housed two identically fateful bullets in small burrows of sinewy muscle, overworked by the gesture, Sniper pressing it to work further regardless.

"One, two, three…" Jack counts off softly in Lawrence's ear, the spoken numbers a gentle flutter of warm air that causes Lawrence to smile smally as he feels the breath glide across the outer rim of his ear before swirling into its depth hotly, the words disappearing within them, leaving behind no trace. They fling the crumbs into the air, Jack watching as they pirouette into the brine, the lake's surface rippling as the soggy bread sits for only a second before three peeping ducklings protrude slowly from the cluster of reeds and lily pads near the other end of the bank.

"See? Look, love, here they come," Jack grins, Lawrence smiling as well as he watches the feeding babies, a mother mallard quacking her way into the throng and drilling her bill to nip at the dark brown surface of the water.

"Oi, le's toss in a little more, what d'you say?"

Scout nods, throwing in the completely hardened crust, once again with Jack's help, the young man going to bring his hand-the only hand he can move, for the over arm rests in a lightweight cast-to rest in Jack's again, the man curling his fingers down to lace themselves with his. Jack jumps and laughs as a life like, startling quack slips from Lawrence's lips, the young man catching the Mallard's attention with a perfect duck call of his own.

Jack's other hand curls along Scout's cheek, the other snaking around his abdomen, a careful though constricting tug of his body causing Lawrence to fall closer against the man that holds him-Lawrence wasting no time in nuzzling closer against him.

"What d'you reckon, we should get back on the road, eh?" Jack whispers, though not too keen on the idea of leaving the young man behind in the camper by his lonesome whilst Jack remained in the van proper, speeding his way across the country in an attempt to reach Boston in a day or less. Scout shakes his head no before yawning, twisting as best he can to better support his attempt to curl in Sniper's arms and lap.

"We ain't gotta go so fast."

Lawrence's mumbled words jumble into unintelligible grunts, the young man barely moving his lips, which remain pressed against Jack's collarbone. He had a point, Jack contemplates, the sun only just now beginning to set. Shifting his leg to better support him, Jack thinks nothing of the moist earth that smears itself into the fabric of his slacks, his eyes too focused on the circling ducklings, who wade the water's edge in hopes that their onlookers spare yet more of the divine feast given unto them.

A shiny glint catches his eye as Sniper turns his head a specific way, the metal of the wheelchair's handle left at the bottom of the small hill catching the light of the sun in a brief fit of blindness. Lawrence didn't seem to mind the chair, and for that he was glad.

"You know, Jack, this is one of the chillest birthdays I've had in a long ass time," he laughs, relying on the causality of his swears to feign normalcy where his condition and physical weakness could not. "Even if I'm missin' a foot,"

Jack smiles, for his sake, despite not quite having come to terms with Lawrence's maladies himself. He holds his tired, grizzly smile, eyes parallel over the edge of the water, the men allowing a whole ten minutes to pass between them before Jack notices with a start the Scout had fallen asleep again. They were Heinrich's last words to Jack, after the extensive goodbyes they'd all shared in each other's company.

_"Do not let him fall asleep, unless you can live viz ze possibility of him never vaking up again,"_

Jack sighs heavily, curling his arms around the young man, kissing him gently and muttering a tired "love you" in his ear, Lawrence echoing the words back before drifting into a gentle sleep. The route to Boston was long, and far from even halfway over, but he would still attempt the distance. Whether Lawrence was to wake to see the skyline from the window or not, Jack reasons as he presses his lips against the young man's forehead, he would love him all the same.


End file.
